


and oh, my dreams

by orphan_account



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: 1990s, Alternate Universe, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Infidelity, Minor Injuries, NYC, Non-Canon Relationship, Online Relationship, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23660941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: They meet online and then in real life but it's much more complicated than that.
Relationships: Chloe Beale & Beca Mitchell, Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell
Comments: 49
Kudos: 192





	1. autumn in new york, it spells the thrill of first-nighting

**Author's Note:**

> hello! so, this is an au based on the movie you've got mail. it does veer from the storyline, but it generally is inspired by the movie. 
> 
> there is what i would consider infidelity here. if that is something that affects you, perhaps this should be skipped, which is completely understandable. ♡
> 
> the title is from the song dreams by the cranberries and the chapter title(s) is from the song autumn in new york.

There is a distinct chill that feels like Fall. 

Or, what feels like a window left ajar. 

Chloe turns her head to see curtains flowing, sunlight lingering. She closes her eyes. She sighs, knowing an open window means Frank is around, likely in the kitchen, likely brewing French press and eating his toast with marmite.

She twists her body, stretching her back, her legs, letting out a huff. Laid out like a starfish, her body tense, still full of sleep, she waits for Frank. 

The window still welcomes a chill. 

Within a few minutes of being awake, there is a sudden noise, harsh like a whistle up close when dozing. 

“My article got rejected."

And then, "God, what a joke."

And finally, "The internet will do more harm than good.”

Chloe wonders if Frank knows she has dial-up.

“Chloe, hun, it’s 7:12, ya gotta get up,” Frank says. Chloe can picture him standing above her, the newspaper in hand, anxiously awaiting open eyes as a cue to read off the morning's opinion editorial.

“Frank, aren't you late?” Chloe says, propping herself on her elbows. “I’m a bit tired still, my head hurts-”

“Okay, alright,” Frank says as if he is conceding. “The sure downfall of home computers can wait.”

“Thank you,” Chloe says, laying down. She watches Frank fix his tie as he shuffles around her bedroom. She momentarily wishes she had the desire to ask him to cuddle, to crawl into bed, to forget work and just be there with her, but she doesn't. She tries not to think about it, tries not to be frustrated simply by the sight of his face, his toothy smile, his freckled cheeks, his messy curly hair, all aspects she at one time was smitten with. 

“Up for sushi tonight?” 

“Probably.” 

She begins to mentally psych herself up to remind Frank not to leave the windows open at night.  _ I get too cold _ , she rehearses,  _ and it makes me nervous _ . 

He begins to rant about leaf blowers as he exits, saying his I love yous mixed with well-work day wishes.

When it falls quiet, Chloe savors the silence. Then, zeros in on curtains blowing. 

She hastily sits up, grunting in the process of crawling to the opposite side of the bed, reaching for the top of the window to shut it (slam it) closed, admittedly annoyed though trying not to be. She sits in front of the window, listening to the laughter and shrieks and screams of kids passing by on their way to school, sounds of cars rushing down the city streets, all too aware of an ever-present sadness. It's her fault; she knows she doesn't love Frank, she knows she's unhappy. There is no one to blame but herself. 

She doesn't want to get up. It all feels so tense and heavy and like a whole day's worth of work and stress had already hit her body, the begging for rest rough when it was barely 7:30 in the morning.

There is a flicker of gratitude for Frank at the sight of a full mug of coffee next to her computer, but it dies before it can live long enough to burn. Chloe decides not to think about the love she doesn't have for her boyfriend (which is code for she's going to think about it, but not acknowledge it). She shuffles to the bathroom, her mug held against her cheek to warm her face.

The ticking of an analog clock the score to the early morning, Chloe blows a raspberry at her reflection. Dark under-eye circles the look of the day, as is most days. She notices a few buttons on her shirt are undone. Her pajama blouse loosely hung around her shoulders, she examines herself in the mirror. As she naturally ages, she makes a point of appreciating her body. Her stomach is pudgier than it was two years ago, her breasts aren’t as perky as they had been three years ago, but she was proud of her aging. She felt no remorse, no reason to see her body as less than because she wasn’t twenty-two anymore.

After she rinses her face, she makes her way to her computer, etching a mental note to casually remind Frank that he can’t move in just yet, no matter how many positive bullet points about sharing an apartment he had memorized. Chloe’s living area wasn’t spacious (one of her bullet points if she was bullet pointing) so the journey to her computer was quick. Sliding around the book covered coffee table, she sat on the love seat and opened the laptop perched on  _ Sense and Sensibility. _

“Okay,” she mumbles, then takes a sip of her coffee. After selecting her screen name and listening to the static and screeching of dial-up, she smiles at hearing,  _ Welcome! You’ve got mail! _

Eyes darting through a thread of fifteen, noticing mostly what was coined as “spam emails” by that one computer genius guy, she finally eyes what she’s looking for.

Chloe takes a deep breath, exhales, and begins reading.

_ Olive is my cat. I actually don't call her Olive though, just Cat. But I’ll refer to her as Olive cause that's like, her actual name. Olive loves to sit on my bedroom window sill and judge people. She’s lucky we're in a two-story-walk up and not at the top of a 24 story.  _

_ Also, how's it going? _

_ I have a question…what do you think of New York in the Fall? This is my first Fall in New York and every time I remember that I have to stop whatever I’m doing and listen to Autumn in New York by Billie Holiday or else the song will be stuck in my head for hours. On loop.  _

_ Anyway, Fall makes me want to buy school supplies, and I always hated school. It's scary what the power of advertising has over people. _

_...okay, I re-read what I just typed and… sorry that I'm this boring, I know I’m not a very exciting person. I'm gonna try to be more exciting for you. Here we go. _

_ I would send you a basket of apples (cause you said you love apple picking a few weeks ago, right?) if I knew your name and address. But I can’t do that and for some reason, not knowing is kinda cool. _

* * *

It's supposed to rain. 

The evening forecast predicted that there would be a downpour through the previous night, but it has yet to start. It’s cold and damp and looking like a storm may begin any minute, but with each passing second, there's no such luck.

Beca likes dreary weather. She likes the sound of rain and the smell of wet cement, how it provides an easy excuse for staying inside. She is currently experiencing the coldest Autumn of her life, being that she grew up in California where the low in the cooler months was 45 Fahrenheit. She’s not sure if she can handle winter in the city if Fall feels nearly unbearable.

It feels way too early to be up and moving. 

As of late, she cannot sleep past five. Beca’s not sure if it’s anxiety towards living in a new apartment that prevents her from sleeping or the fact that her cat Olive has taken to sleeping directly on top of her face. Either way, she handles it poorly.

She's sitting up in bed, her cat snuggling against her chest. 

Her mind is static. Like, literally she might as well be flatlining. 

She decides she wants to shower, hoping it may wake her up. She gently nudges Olive's head with her own, apologizing for having to move her.

As the bathroom steams, nearly becoming a sauna, she stares at herself in the fogging mirror.

It's always a shock when she doesn't dread what she sees. She has slowly grown to embrace her reflection. It’s as if she suddenly, one day, looked in the mirror and rather than sadness came contentment. Though it feels like a sudden switch, it took years. It’s a relief after spending decades disliking yourself and your appearance genuinely not hating it anymore.

She showers and dries her hair and throws a robe on for comfort. 

Beca’s standing in her tiny kitchen, Olive perched on the counter eyeing her as she peels back a banana, figuring what she wants to fix for breakfast (microwavable oatmeal, difficulty level: easy) when she hears  _ You've Got Mail! _ from her laptop. The banana no longer important, she rushes to her computer, Olive hopping off the counter behind her. She straddles the seat, paying no mind to the fact she’s wearing a robe and opens the email. 

Olive hops onto the table, meowing as she tries to sit on the keyboard but is whisked off and on to the floor. 

"Not now, Cat."

Beca begins reading. 

_ I like to start off my responses to you as if we have been friends for years. Yes we met in a chatroom, and yes I don’t know your name or what you look like, but I consider you my friend. So, hello there. I've missed your letters.  _

_ I’m excited for Halloween. I know it’s barely October, but every grocery store has pumpkins. How can I not think about it?  _

_ How are you?  _

_ Last night for dinner I tried pineapple on pizza because you said you hated it… and I loved it. Any other foods you hate that I should try? _

_ It’s so interesting you call your cat Cat...like Audrey Hepburn does in Breakfast at Tiffany’s! Do you like movies?  _

_ I had a cat when I was a kid. A black and white one named Oreo. Hopefully neither you or Olive judge me for that.  _

_ Anyway, I look forward every day to talking to you, stranger. If I’m being honest, when I get a new email from you I get so excited I have to read it right away. In fact, I was late to work last week because of you. I guess It’s just that after reading these notes, or emails, or letters or whatever you wanna call it from you, I'm so happy it’s a little crazy.  _

_ I feel like I’ve never connected to another person like I’ve connected to you.  _

_ P.S. New York is worth the cold. _

* * *

The walk to work, though she follows the same path, passes the same stores, looks into the same coffee shop she’s meant to visit for weeks, months now, has an air of difference. She feels light, hopeful, not a trace of any anger or sadness or previous frustrations.

_ (There is so much joy in talking to this stranger.) _

She finishes her walk to work upon seeing Emily waiting at the storefront.

Emily is like a caricature of a sweet 24-year-old girl. She wears big, chunky, pumpkin-colored scarves, floral dresses with denim jackets and tights to keep her warm during the end of the year months. She smiles, waving, exchanging hellos as Chloe nears. 

They open the bookshop, chatting about neither this nor that; the new taqueria down the street, the book signing they’re holding next week, comments about  _ Eloise _ , how popular the books continue to be, questioning whether they should decorate the shop for Halloween and if they should give out candy, or fruit (candy, they decide), wonderings if should they adopt a shop cat.

“What’s gotten into you?” is the question that halts the easy flow.

“What do you mean?” Chloe says, leaning on the counter that separates the two.

“You’re so happy,” Emily says, nearly seeming suspicious. “I mean, I think you are a happy person but you almost are, like, too… excited.”

“Oh,” Chloe says, not caring to feign, “I do feel different. I think I’ve finally met someone who likes me for me.”

“So it’s not working out between you and Frank, then?” 

“Oh, it is, but, it's not... I mean, Frank is, well, Frank… he’s...”

“So it's another guy?”

“Is it infidelity if it’s someone I’ve met online?”

“Have you had sex?”

“No, no!” Chloe says, blushing, as she stares at Emily pointedly. “I don’t even know him!”

“I mean, cybersex…” Emily says, slightly sheepish.

“Emily, do you do this… cybersex?”

“I do not,” Emily says, rather calm and straightlaced. “I just know that men, apparently, enjoy sex online now.”

“Well, we just talk about harmless things,” Chloe says. “He tells me about his cat, I tell him about my day, he listens, actually. What man listens?”

“Are you gonna meet him?”

“No,” Chloe says, insistent. “I’ll probably end it sooner than later. Frank wants to move in with me, and even though I don’t want him to he probably will by next month, and then we will get married and probably have a kid, maybe get a dog...”

“Move to Connecticut?”

“That’s the one thing I won’t do.”

* * *

_ “Sometimes I wonder about my life. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m fulfilled. I guess I’m not if I have to ask myself. I love my work. I love my friends and family. But I’m worried that I’m not going to be happy in five, ten, twenty years. What if I marry the wrong person? What if I never marry? I feel like all my mom does is remind me that I’m unmarried and over 30. How do you even know who the right person is? I’m not even sure if I want an answer. I guess this is just me shouting into the void. So goodnight, dear void.” _

_ "This is the void saying you’re gonna be okay. I worry about the same things. I think it may be normal. I just started working for this company and I have no clue if it was the right decision, you know? I don’t think it is. Sorry, enough about me. You seem to be a good person. I just wanna say that. I bet you make the people in your life really, really, happy, like actually happy, and I don't think that’s something everyone can say. I’m hoping this helps. I know you were not looking for a solution, so I hope this does not feel like I’m preaching at you. I hope you are doing okay otherwise.” _

* * *

Beca looks up, squinting at the towering building from across the street. It's nothing short of unwelcoming. 

When it's her turn to cross the street, she begins to tell herself that she shouldn’t be nervous. Not only is it not her first day but her third week working there, her father owns the company. If someone so much as glances at her the wrong way, and if she's the type, she can tell her dad and he could fire them. Just like that. 

_ (Maybe the nepotisms getting to her.) _

She knows that it will be an uneventful workday. She will get by with hardly any social interaction (besides as she walks in, hi’s, hello’s, and good morning's thrown around while walking to her office). She will say yes or no to various books their new Super Book Store may carry, she will have lunch with her father and his business partners, they will go on a walkthrough and a look around of the new store, and that's it, really.

When the time comes, she decides on taking an alternate route home.  It’s not too cold, and it’s a Friday with no plans, so she figures, why not. 

(She doesn't want to think about how she has been instructed to go by a specific small, independent bookshop to scope it out, which she dislikes, but of course, must do, so maybe if she tells herself she stumbled upon it on her walk home, though yes, it is quite out of the way, she won’t feel so damn evil about snooping around). 

The Shop Around the Corner, which is three blocks south from the very new Mitchell Books (her new ball and chain) and actually right around the corner of Twelfth and Manhattan Ave., is quaint and cute and apparently run by a woman who's been labeled enchanting by the neighborhood.

Because Beca has impeccable timing, she walks into the bookstore right in the middle of storytime.

The woman reading aloud pauses briefly, looking over at her with a small smile of acknowledgment, then continues the story. Beca almost leaves but decides against it because she doesn’t want to create any more of a distraction than she already has. She stands awkwardly at the door praying the story is nearing its end. Kids continuously glance over at her and she feels guilty that she is interrupting them, interrupting storytime, which feels like something that could create a vendetta against her for life if she knew these kids personally.

The story finally ends with thunderous applause and kids scrambling up in order to go find their favorite books. 

Beca begins to walk around, attempting to mentally memorize the interior, how it’s set up as if out of a fairytale, like a woodland cottage with string lights everywhere.

There are dozens and dozens of books on display, kids begging their parents for a pop-up picture book, or postcards with beloved characters etched on them.

Beca is flipping through a random paperback book when there is a hand on her shoulder and a “hi,” greeted, far too excitedly for her personal liking. It being the woman who read the story, Beca worries she is going to say something about her interrupting - _ it was rude, wasn’t it? _ \- but all that is actually said is, “Were you picking up a kid from storytime?”

“Oh,” Beca says, snapping the book shut. “No, I’m just… here.”

“Oh, not a problem!” The woman says this as if she’s chirping. “Can I help you find anything?”

“Do you have cat books?” This is Beca thinking on her feet.

“Picture books, non-fiction books… what kind, exactly?”

“Biography?”

“As in, like,” she says, tilting her head in clear confusion, “Information on cats?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sure we do,” she says warmly. “Go ahead and follow me.”

She shows Beca their selection, asking if she has any particular in mind (she does not), and leaves her with, “I’m Chloe if you need anything else.”

Beca pretends to browse the shelves, counting to ten five times, deciding that is a reasonable amount of time allotted to searching. She is able to leave without running into her again, thankfully avoiding any more awkward social interaction than necessary.

* * *

_ “The other night I was having a late dinner when I found out I may have competition in my business. I know that we said nothing personal, but I own a business, and apparently, a similar one is being built a few blocks away. Obviously, I can’t be the only one in the city doing what I do, but I’m worried. It should be okay and nothing too serious, but it’s been on my mind, and I trust you, so I wanted to share. _

_ On another note… I am considering getting a cat. Should I?” _

_ “Get a cat, dude. I got Olive at a shelter in Greenpoint called Adopt 'n' Shop. I’d recommend going there. _

_ Okay, so as for business, I don’t know a lot, but my dad owns a company. He always says, “It’s not personal, it’s business.” And in therapy when I was a kid, I learned about repetition and how a lot can be solved by using it. So maybe try repeating that to yourself. “It’s not personal, it’s business.” Just try not to think of business matters as against you, or it might really get to you. _

_ And if it does, I’m here for you.” _


	2. autumn in new york is often mingled with pain

Chloe has issues with consistency.

Years ago, she made a comment to one of her college friends over beers late one night that she would never date a man who snores.

Frank always falls asleep before her. Chloe can be dead tired and Frank will be the one out like a light the minute they settle into bed.

(This makes for a very inactive sex life, resulting in an often unsatisfied Chloe.)

Her mind is preoccupied with worry about her bookstore versus the new corporate bookstore Frank says surely will threaten the state of her business and she's in need of something that will relax her. Maybe she will make some tea.

She stares at Frank as she lies on her side, watching his chest rise and fall. She notices how when he snores his lips move funny. Kind of like a horse.

The warm, yellowish low light casts a shadow across his face as if from a candle. It has the possibility to be romantic, but his snoring genuinely sounds like a revving engine and it's too much to bear.

She rolls out of bed with a sigh, glancing at the clock to see thirteen minutes passed one. Frank has been sleeping since around 10, snoring since around 11.

 _Jesus,_ she thinks to herself, _I need melatonin._ She goes for a glass of water, supposing since she's up she should check her email. And make that tea.

The living area is dark, barely lit by moonlight, so she turns on a table sidelight in order to move around. As she stands in the kitchen, noting the silence of inside versus the still ever-present noises of the city at night, she pops melatonin.

She feels like a bad person. She goes to boil water, wondering if it's possible to even be a good person. She thinks it is, but something you have to work to be. She grabs a mug, one with a bear on it, searches for the chamomile tea, deciding that despite flaws, she's good. Or she tries to be, at least.

She starts up her computer after her tea is ready. She doesn't worry about the screech of dial-up as she knows Frank is a heavy sleeper, and wouldn't wake up in the midst of anything serious, perhaps not even a fire, much less a computer starting.

It feels promiscuous. It does, she won't deny that. It has this whole time, especially now, at one in the morning while her boyfriend sleeps in the other room.

She should end it, just end all contact. She should send an email full of apology, and explanations, confessing that she has grown attached but cannot commit, that she cannot continue on like this when there are definite feelings involved.

She doesn't want to, but she should. She is a grown woman who never in a million years would do this... except she is, and it feels even worse to act like it's not actually happening.

She's never even met this person. She has no idea what they look like (she has a feeling they have wavy brown hair, and she hopes brown, hazel specs of eyes), no clue their exact age, not even the gender is confirmed, only assumed.

All she would lose in severing ties with a person she emails off and on is an acquaintance type relationship.

Except Chloe knows that they are more than just friends. And again, it feels wrong to lie to herself and string along with this half-true notion that this is a mere friendship when this stranger is the one who she thinks about as she falls asleep at night.

It doesn't make sense, but it's what she wants.

There's an email at the top of the list (because of course there is) and she opens it immediately upon seeing it, unable to practice self-restraint.

_At work today, I spilled my hot cup of coffee on my lap because I was thinking about you. I don't even know how it happened honestly. I was sitting at my desk and the next thing I know there's burning hot coffee soaking through my pants. I don't even know your name and I was angry at you. I'm not actually upset with you, just so you know, but it was a frustrating situation._

_I just want you to know that it's so easy for me to be honest with you. I guess it could be because you're faceless, but I also feel like I could say anything and you're not gonna be mean. You're just gonna accept it. I could say that I hate the way corgis walk because they look like fake animals out of a kid's cartoon and you would say that it made sense._

_I know it's not that big of a deal, but you make me feel safe. Sometimes I wish I knew you. It's weird how all we've done is talk through email and I feel like you know so much about me and I know so much about you. You're the only person who knows I hate my job. You usually are the last person I speak to before going to bed. I know it's weird, and I know I just said it's weird, but it just is that I feel connected to you. But you said you felt the same a couple emails back, so I'm trying to be open and honest with you._

_I know this is getting to be a long letter, but it's late and I have things on my mind and I just have this feeling that you want to listen._

_I was thinking about our first conversation. I feel like you asked me how old I was and when I said over 30, you said "Thank God" cause, in your words, it was making you feel old seeing so many 20-year-old probably blonde women named Kimberly looking for hookups. After making sure I knew you didn't think it was wrong, just scary to see so many, you mentioned how you love New York and, I know it's personal, but I wanted to know if you grew up here? I didn't. You don't have to answer._

_I'm not sure how long you want to keep this up for. I wouldn't mind just talking, even if this never goes anywhere other than emails once or twice a day. I'm gonna end this by thanking you for being as nice as you are. I think your kindness is actually making me a better person. I'm less annoyed. So thank you._

* * *

The one time Beca decides that she's actually going to cook a full, proper meal, she runs out of butter.

She's found herself at her corner bodega, butter secured, now looking around for dessert possibilities. There are a lot of processed pastries readily available and something called Mochi. The picture on the package looks like little pillows. She eyes it, it's vanilla flavor, her favorite, so she grabs it, sticks it in her basket, and wonders if she should just order take out.

The sunset is a peachy orange that feels like home.

She's not used to the city. She agrees with its fast pace and finds comfort in being enveloped by buildings, but it's just not home yet. She worries it never will be. She's hardly made friends. She has coworkers who are civil but she would rather not have to get a drink with them, so what does civility matter.

It feels like this woman she's been talking to online is really her only friend in the city. And she's not even sure if she counts.

Beca wonders if she ever wonders about her. Beca spends most of her time thinking about her; if she likes coffee or tea, where she grew up, does she like brunch, her stance on aquariums, on rock music, any possibility there is, Beca wonders.

It's comforting for Beca that she is invested.

She has spent a large chunk of her life detached, never allowing herself close to anyone in case a connection forms. As a teenager, she wouldn't date for fear of being hurt. In her twenties, she dated until it felt too serious. The second I love you felt possible, she felt there to be no choice but to end it. It nearly seemed that caring about someone else only equaled unfulfillment, she figured there was no reason to indulge.

So, though this is new for her, allowing herself to unabashedly care for someone, she welcomes it.

(It confirms that she's a real person with real feelings.)

She thinks back to her last email as she walks home.

_I really want to stay friends._

It makes sense that she would. After all, this is a relationship built on anonymity. It's comfortable. No requirements, no expectations. Beca wants to stay friends, too. And she's okay with emailing back and forth and possibly never meeting this woman because if she lost her, it would mean losing the first person she has genuinely connected to.

(And losing an emerging part of herself that she's only now just getting to know.)

She decides she doesn't want to cook. It would turn out shitty anyway.

_There's this place I love in midtown, on 43rd, called Schezuans, that has the best chicken chow mein you will ever have. I'm not even kidding it is literally amazing. If you ever find yourself in the area, you have no choice but to try it. (Per my request of course.)_

Beca supposes she can order take out.

* * *

_My dad is getting married. Again. Literally for the fourth time. I don't know how you can even fall in love four times._

_This woman is a year younger than me. It's so weird. And gross. I don't know what he sees in her. And that's not me being a dick. (Sorry to curse.) They have nothing in common. She's an interior designer and he is a CEO. Like, that's just not a match made in heaven. I promise I'm not vapid or anything._

_I guess it weirds me out because when my mom passed away when I was a kid, my dad married within the same year. It's like, how do you just do that? He's always telling me that I need to get married because I'm "losing precious time" which is so weird. Sorry to use weird a lot, things are just weird._

_Now for random thoughts._

_This morning, I found Olive with this white dust all over her. I thought it was dandruff. And then I realized it was powder. (I think.) And then I got worried that I don't know what dandruff looks like. So then I looked in the mirror for a while. I don't have dandruff._

_Turns out, there is a bagel truck that comes through my street every morning pumping out this white powdery dust stuff. She loves sitting by the window and I forget to close it sometimes so I guess she got bagel dust on her._

_One last thing._

_I went to Starbucks for the first time today and it was insane. I asked for a tall coffee because I thought it would be tall. It was not. It had like three sips in it. Then the guy behind me asked for a grande decaf half and half iced mochaccino. That's so many words it doesn't sound real._

_I feel like it won't take off._

* * *

Attending a housewarming party on a Friday night with her boyfriend who hates parties is not ideal.

Frank has complained the whole walk there about not wanting to go but shoots Chloe down when she insists he doesn't have to.

(She hasn't ended it yet, ever on her mind as they walk.

For brief moments, she wonders if ending it with Frank is possible.

She feels like it as she listens to him complain about how his articles are continuously being rejected.)

Mitchell Books opened just two days ago and already her sales have dropped significantly.

She wants to mention that to Frank. It's stressing her out and she wants to talk about it but he more than likely will dive into a discussion about how late-Capitalism is going to be doing this sort of thing way more often. That's not what she needs right now.

She tries not to think about it. In the end, it will most likely be fine. She's lost 20% of weekly sales.

When they arrive, Chloe realizes it's one of those parties with fancy cheese. Everyone is dressed to the nines and talking about Foucault. Hopefully, there is beer, but probably not.

Chloe's in a corner nursing Chardonnay (she secured her third glass when no one was watching) and listening to Frank charm the circle of people they're with. For someone who was complaining tirelessly the whole journey there, he sure is living it up.

"Reagan, you know, he was so misunderstood."

"Oh, of course."

"You know, I read a biography on him just last week. America just wasn't ready for him."

Chloe sips, nodding along, acting engaged, trying not to look as if she can't believe this is the conversation she's surrounded by right now.

She feels dizzy.

Too quickly, she grows bored with the Chardonnay and wanders off to the bar to look for something stronger.

Usually, Chloe isn't one to be put off by crowds.

All she wants to do now is go home and go to bed.

Maybe she shouldn't have any more alcohol.

Then again, she might not be able to get through the night without at least one more glass.

She does feel slightly tipsy.

One more glass.

She treads through various people, catching bits and pieces of conversations, ranging from spaghetti bolognese to the new strains of weed being sold in Greenwich Village. She didn't know weed had different strains.

She makes it to the bar and asks what's the strongest alcohol they have.

"Bacardi."

"Can I have a cocktail please?"

She downs the wine while she waits. She can feel her face beginning to heat up. Wine does things to her.

"White Russian, please." Chloe hears, beside her. "In a fresh glass."

Casually, she turns her head, and she's vaguely familiar, but not quite. Like she knows her but somehow doesn't.

The other woman glances at her with a tight smile. It's not friendly but it's polite.

Maybe it's the wine or maybe Chloe is occasionally lost for any social cue but she just stares at the woman beside her.

"You good?"

"I am."

"Do you always stare at people like this?"

"I'm drunk."

"Maybe another cocktail isn't necessary then."

Chloe squints at the woman, trying to place where she knows her from.

They are handed their drinks one after another. The other woman lifts her glass at her and begins to walk away.

"I've met you," Chloe says, following her. It's hard to keep up.

"I think you're right," she says.

Chloe likes her leather jacket. She focuses on the woman's brown, wavy hair as they both wiggle around party guests.

"When?" God, was it the alcohol or is she just old?

They stop in front of the table of food.

"Maybe a week ago?" she says, sipping her drink.

"I can't keep track of time."

"I'm not sure that's my problem."

"I'm just trying to be friendly."

"I asked for a cat book."

Chloe's eyes widen, _that was it,_ forgetting about the drink in her hand, she nearly flails her arms, a bit of Bacardi spilling onto her hand.

"I walked in during storytime," she says, and Chloe recalls, and it almost makes her laugh.

"I own that bookstore, just by the way," Chloe says. No more wine.

"Pardonne moi," she says, slightly bowing her head.

"I take it you found no cat books."

"I almost bought My Favorite Catronaut, but there weren't enough pictures."

And it's only funny because there's alcohol clouding her brain, but it's enough to send Chloe into a laughing fit.

They find conversation easily despite one of them being impaired.

It's not really about anything, but that's what's so exciting about it.

Chloe finds out her name is Beca and she's here because it's work-related. She doesn't want to pry, but wonders how a housewarming party can be work-related. She lives two blocks over, near Pizzaria Lib (they fawn over their Margherita pizza), and when Beca smiles at a dumb joke Chloe makes Chloe feels white-hot.

Chloe isn't sure how much time has passed or if time is passing at all.

"So are you from here?"

"Brooklyn."

"Oh wow," Beca says, looking as if she has no follow up.

Chloe stares. She can't help it.

Beca has thick eyeliner but it's not overwhelming. It looks good. It fits her. She wears a leather jacket with a red button-up underneath and baggy jeans and what she thinks are Dr. Martens and she has piercings going up both ears. Chloe looks like the girl next door in comparison. She's wearing a floral maxi dress and Keds.

Beca's leaning against a wall. They've secured a corner. Chloe feels like they floated over. She can't feel her legs at all.

Quite suddenly, Frank is at her side.

"Hey, there you are," Frank says. He slides his arm around her waist.

Chloe scrunches her nose. She thinks Beca may have seen because she looks like she's trying not to laugh.

"I thought you left."

"No, just talking." Chloe glances over at Beca, sustaining brief eye contact before Frank is tugging at her. When she doesn't let him pull her away, explaining she's not ready to go, he looks over at Beca like he knows her.

"I saw you in the paper."

"That may be true."

"The paper?" Chloe stands there, mouth slightly hanging open. Why she feels offended because Beca didn't share this with her she doesn't know, as they talked for no more than a half an hour and just met tonight.

"How does it feel to be spineless?

"Frank!"

"To be picking on the little guy?"

Chloe nudges him as if to say _what in the fuck._

"No, Chlo, this is Beca Mitchell."

Chloe looks between the two of them.

"Mitchell Books."

"Oh," Chloe says and it's solemn.

Beca doesn't say anything. Chloe studies her.

"Tell me, how do you sleep at night?"

Frank is glaring at her as if she left him nothing in the divorce.

"Not well."

"Were," Chloe starts, feeling nearly speechless, "I don't want to assume, but it feels like you were spying on me."

"I wasn't," Beca says and she's a bad actress.

"Trying to steal business practices?" Frank asks. Chloe worries she may have to physically restrain him from verbally lunging at Beca which she probably can't do right now anyway.

She sort of glares, maybe it's her heavy eyeliner, Chloe's not positive, and she looks guilty.

"I really wasn't," she says, a bit incredulous. "I just work there."

"But you're associated," Frank says, "You're a part of the family."

"And?" Beca says, "I'm not like, actively trying to run anyone out of business. I'm just doing my job, dude."

Chloe wants to speak up, but Frank keeps talking.

"You're job," Frank over enunciates, "Is practically to destroy the art of books and make it into all about making as much money as possible."

"Look," Beca says, seemingly trying to find an escape route, and Chloe can't blame her, Frank is overbearing. "What, you make $350,000 a year in sales, you'll be fine. Even if we run you out, you won't go broke."

"How did you know that?"

"I'm in the book business."

"I'm in the book business," Chloe says, coming out harsher than intended.

"Touche."

Before Chloe can possibly reply, Frank is saying something about greed and forcing Chloe away with him.

* * *

_...I'm not good at conflict. I feel like I just say things. Or nothing. They just come out and I don't even realize. It's like I space out and say whatever and then I come back and can't even remember what happened._

_I know I've already said this, but my business is in trouble. Right now, I'm more worried about having to let my coworker go. It's just me and her and we have managed fine, but if I can't pay rent I can't pay her. I would feel so bad if she lost her job._

_I don't know who else to talk to about this. I just need someone to listen. I don't want advice, or sympathy, or how-tos, or anything. I just want to talk and vent and have someone nod along and say that they are sorry this is happening but you will get through it all unscathed even if that isn't true._

_I was thinking. Should we meet?_

Beca reads the last line over and again then shuts her computer.


	3. autumn in new york, the gleaming rooftops at sundown

"You're not helping!" Chloe screams, startling herself. She's trying to be tough.

"Well, Chlo," Frank says, as stern as ever, "I'm just being honest."

"I don't want honesty, I want you to lie to me and tell me that everything will be fine."

"I'm not going to do that."

"Why not?" Chloe says with her arms crossed over her chest, slightly pouting, feeling like a child.

"Because Chloe, I'm just giving the facts here. Your sales have dropped significantly in less than a month."

(He stares at her as if she's stupid.

Maybe she is stupid.)

"I know! What, you don't think I know that? I'm not asking you for statistics, I'm asking you to be empathetic, Frank. Is that so hard?"

"I don't want to lie to you."

"Well, I want you to. Just right now, for tonight, I need you to tell me that nothing is going to go wrong and everything is just fine."

"Chloe," Franks says, in clear disbelief.

"I know sales are down, I know that twenty-five fewer people daily are coming into the store, I know that I will probably have to lay Emily off," Chloe says, pausing to breathe. She wants to break up with him. "But I just need you to stop with the negatives and for just one second, tell me I'm okay. That's it, that's all I want."

Frank hugs her. It doesn't feel right when he wraps his arms around her, but it's better than him talking at her or them arguing.

Chloe feels like a little ball of adrenaline and anxiety.

"I know it will probably end in shutting down," Chloe mumbles from against Frank's chest.

"Probably," he says, beginning to stroke her hair. Where she usually would mind, she welcomes the comfort it introduces.

"I just hate that it feels like there is nothing I can do," Chloe says, zoning off into space. It feels awkward, and then it doesn't, and being tucked into Frank feels sweet, and then it doesn't.

"You could sell the place."

"I couldn't."

"It would make you a lot of money."

"It would feel like a cop-out." Chloe steps back, now she's the one in disbelief. "I don't want to sell my business. I'm going to run it until I can't anymore."

"It was just a suggestion."

And she knew she did not love him, but she's not even sure if she likes him.

"I'm gonna make some tea," Chloe says.

"I should go," Frank then says. It's a statement, not a question.

She can feel him watching her as she walks into the kitchen, she almost wants to ask him to stay, but it doesn't feel worth it; their relationship is a ratio of one good moment to five bad ones.

"I think you should," Chloe states.

She doesn't watch him leave, and only replies with a nod, hoping he sees, when he says, "call me if you need anything."

As she stirs her tea, adding spoonfuls of honey, she wonders if she should have broken up with him then and there.

* * *

" _We're running her out of business."_

It's the phrase of the day.

If Beca would have known that one of the company's goals is running The Shop Around the Corner out of business, agreeing to take on this position would not have been an instant yes.

It feels immoral. Purposely trying to ruin an individual's livelihood to better a company's personal gain is not something she wants to associate with.

She's at lunch with her dad at some diner downtown, staring at her sandwich and fries as her dad talks. He's talking a lot but saying nothing at all.

"We're doing so well we're seeing if investing in another store is worth it or not."

"In the city?"

"Maybe near a pier or something."

He goes off into open dialogue thoughts about how the people who are protesting their superstore _are nothing but crazy liberals, pseudointellectuals who think they know anything about life._

She wonders if he knows anything about her. She wonders why she didn't realize people were protesting. Maybe she's bad at her job.

"Did you ever meet the girl who runs that store, Beca?"

"Yeah."

"What did you think of her?"

Beca furrows her eyebrows, picking up a French fry and chomping on it, she looks at him questioningly. "Well, what do you mean?"

"I've heard good things."

"She seems nice." Beca erases previous memories of the woman's presumed boyfriend telling her she's spineless. Who knows, maybe _she's_ kind.

"She's a looker, too."

"Jesus," she says, leaning back in her seat. Momentarily, she wonders if he somehow knows she's into women. Then, figures no, he's just being a man. "Is that what you wanted me to say?"

"What, you don't agree?" Her dad continues eating his burger as if he is not trying to objectify women with her, his daughter.

"She's pretty, yeah," Beca says and she's lost her appetite. "But I mean, dude, is this the kind of thing you guys talk about at work?"

"Not always," he says, laughing. "Don't call your father dude."

"Aren't you getting married?" Beca says, ignoring the second part.

"I can still appreciate women," he states, almost as if he is offended.

She doesn't even want to reply.

On her mind, ever as of late, is the prodding feeling of guilt. This job, after all, is not what she expected and not what she is up for.

Since she moved across the country for this career, which is the only aspect tying her to New York, it doesn't feel like a possibility to quit. If she quits, her dad would surely disown her (or something just as dramatic). She would lose her income, having nowhere to go, nowhere to live. At least now she has an apartment and a cat and a stocked fridge.

She isn't sure if it's better to cut ties now or fall into the family business permanently and miserably.

* * *

Beca's pouring sugar in her coffee, dreading walking to the office in this cold (the beginning of November has never felt so harsh), when she looks up, seeing Chloe walk inside of the very coffee shop she's in.

Out of all the places in New York...

"Oh, Jesus," she mumbles, before hightailing it out of there.

* * *

Chloe does not realize she harbors an active, newfound dislike for anyone until a Saturday morning at the outdoor flower market near her apartment.

She's figuring which daffodils look the healthiest when out of the corner of her eye, she sees Beca through a row of flowers.

She tries not to look like she notices her. The feeling of anger though she notices right away.

(And that Beca is dressed well, but, whatever, that doesn't matter.)

* * *

Beca's beginning to wonder if she has run into Chloe in the past without knowing her because now it's like she cannot leave the house without seeing the woman.

And she doesn't necessarily hate her, she would just rather not see her this often.

Beca notices her in the line directly in front of her at the grocery. She is paying for bread and eggs, and admittedly now, eavesdropping on Chloe.

It's hard to hear; she's saying she's sorry over and over again, that much Beca can discern. The guy behind Chloe then yells at her, something like, _no, it's not alright._ Then, the cashier says that she's in a card only line.

_Oh._

Beca grabs her groceries, making her way toward the exit. She can hear Chloe profusely apologizing as she walks by.

So, though this goes against her usual _don't get involved_ philosophy, she takes a sharp left turn and walks up to the register Chloe is at. "Here."

Chloe, of course, looks at her. Beca doesn't know the reaction because she doesn't look, only raises her eyebrows at her as she hands her card over.

The awkwardness of just standing there as the transaction processes is almost enough to make Beca regret this.

She tells herself that it is the least she can do. Her dad is almost definitely running Chloe out of business.

When Beca is handed her card, Chloe says a short thank you. Then, "you didn't have to do that," as Beca is signing the receipt.

"You were holding the line up," Beca says, finally looking at Chloe, who she must say, looks stunned.

"I forgot my card, it was an accident."

"Well, yeah."

"How should I repay you?" Chloe says, grabbing her groceries and in the same breath, apologizing to and thanking the cashier.

"It's fine," Beca says as they leave, side by side. "It was like, twenty bucks."

"Still," Chloe says, sounding insistent. They stand facing one another outside of the store.

"Are you trying to get on my good side?" Chloe says, looking suspicious. She's squinting at her like she's looking at a mischievous child. "You're gonna make me dislike you even more if you don't let me pay you back."

There's a sudden rush in Beca's chest. Chloe is employing direct eye contact. Beca realizes how blue her eyes are, how red and rosy her cheeks are from the icy cold, the scar right above her left eyebrow. She hadn't noticed it before.

"Just," Beca says, then pauses, "if we see each other again, I don't know, buy me a coffee. Or something."

Chloe counters it. "Can't I just give you cash?"

"Okay," Beca says, flatly.

Chloe hands her twenty-five. She looks like she wants nothing more than to throw the money in her face.

"Well," Chloe says, audibly inhaling, shaking her head. "Thank you again."

They part ways. Weirdly, Beca does hope they meet again.

* * *

She's sitting in bed going through various paperwork.

She doesn't know what to do. She's stuck.

Though she has a business, she isn't a businesswoman.

She lacks grit, she takes things personally.

The bank she goes to in order to take care of bigger finances says that if things don't change for the better, and stay that way, she will have no choice but to close.

Two days ago, she let Emily know they may fold. She had tried to keep Emily as up to date as possible; the news was not shocking.

Chloe puts her face in her hands, runs her fingers through her hair, and huffs. She hasn't talked to Frank in days, maybe a week, she isn't sure. Since he left, there has been zero contact.

It seems as if the constants in her life are dwindling.

If she reads any more numbers she may explode.

Maybe she should call Frank.

They could make up, trade apologies, go on with their relationship.

 _Why not,_ Chloe thinks.

As she's reaching for the phone, she hears, _You've Got Mail!_ from across the room and maybe it's a sign from up above that she axes it with Frank. Or a coincidence. Either way, she doesn't even hesitate to go over to the computer and begin reading.

_First of all, hi. How are you?_

_I forgot I don't actually know you. A coworker of mine today mentioned how he was gonna go up to the Catskills, and it reminded me of the story you told me about the one summer you visited and got bit by mosquitos and learned you're allergic. I almost shared that for some reason. Then I realized one, it would be a weird thing to say anyway, and two, that I wouldn't even have a name to give with the story._

_I'm okay with not knowing. If we meet though, I'd at least like to know your name then._

_I know we said we would not share any really personal stories, avoid personal details altogether, but I want to share this with you. I am pretty sure it gives a few things away about me but, if we are planning on meeting sometime soon you'll know anyway. So whatever._

_I had the weirdest experience today. I was out back around the office building calling a friend from California when these garbage men went off on me because we apparently use these cheap bags for trash. I started yelling at them back because what was I supposed to do? Stand there and have two grown men yell at me? Like it was my fault? When I told them I have no control over what trash bags we use they said: "why would you, what are you a secretary?" If I wasn't on company time I might have slapped them both. I just walked away after that and then they yelled after me saying I had a nice ass and to come back and talk to them._

_I thought about it all day long cause it made me feel like shit. Sorry. I never know if I should curse or if you are offended by it._

_Well, anyway. I hope things are good. As good as they can be with your business and everything. How's it? You don't have to answer that if it's too sensitive of a subject._

_By the way, I am surprised you aren't a writer. Or are you and I don't know it. Are you a writer and I don't know it?_

_Okay, goodnight. Or, good morning. Whenever you read this, I hope it's good._

* * *

Beca's dozing on the couch, Olive sleeping soundly on her chest. It's a lazy Sunday. Nothing gets done besides waffles for a mid-morning brunch.

It's nice. There's a bit of sun gleaming, which feels rare for a November mid-day. Though everything tracks as calm, peaceful, she feels off. Like she's done something horrible and is reaping the consequences. Only, she isn't exactly up to date on what she did.

There's this nagging. As if it's saying _remember what happened, remember what happened._

If she thinks about it, there are a few accounts that it could be. One, Chloe. Two, how awful her job continues to be. Three, not receiving an email back in a whole day. That doesn't happen.

She sits up, Olive hopping off of her. She scoops the cat up in her arms and holds her as she walks over to her computer.

When she logs on, she feels a rush of adrenaline in her chest.

There's no email. Now she's _worried,_ worried. What if something happened to her? Beca has absolutely no way of knowing, no way of contacting her directly, no way of even contacting anyone to check on her. What if she's hurt, injured, alone in her apartment with no help?

Beca slugs back over to the couch.

(It might be wrong to entertain the thought, but the fear that this woman perhaps didn't know she's a woman, too, and thus why no reply, is ever-present.)

Olive curls back up in her lap and they fall into a light sleep together.

An hour or so later, Beca wakes, and it's late evening. She goes over to her computer.

It's a relief to finally see an email waiting for her.

_Oh my God, first of all, I'm sorry for a delayed response. I won't lie to you, I've been too stressed to write a meaningful reply._

_I'm so sorry that happened to you. Men can be real jerks. Honestly, men are rats. They treat you badly and then wonder why you don't love them. They objectify you and then when you feed into it subconsciously they shame you for being sexual. (Not that I blame you for what happened, in any way, I promise you.) I think I'm done with men. Reading what you wrote makes me never want to look at another one again._

_I'm just so sorry that happened._

_And I forget I don't know you, too. I am always thinking about you and then have to remind myself I don't even know what you look like. It's crazy._

_I love that you always ask how I am. It makes me feel like you really care. Tonight, I am okay. Not good, but I am okay. How are you?_

_We will meet soon. I know we keep saying that, but life keeps getting in the way._

_I wanted to know. What's your favorite flower? Mine are daffodils._

_I hope you are doing well. I hope your job improves. I hope you have had a good Sunday._

_Goodnight. 3_

_P.S._

_I suppose it doesn't really matter that we are both women, now does it?_

* * *

Chloe has just made a fresh pot of coffee and sat down at her computer when she notices something on the computer screen that she hasn't ever seen before.

There's her email, with a little green dot by it. She looks up what it means, learning that it is to signal when someone is currently online.

And that you can message them.

In real-time.

"Hm," she makes, hovering the mouse over the email handle. She takes a sip of coffee.

She clicks on it and a message box pops up.

The space bar blinks at her.

 _Hello, there xx_ she types, immediately backspacing.

 _Hi!_ She tries. No, too forced.

She waits a moment, figuring what to say.

_Hey, I can't believe we are on at the same exact time!_

She presses send.

It takes a few (agonizingly long) moments, but she replies.

_Hey, I didn't even know this was a thing_

Chloe laughs. _Me either._

_How are you? What's up?_

_Nothing really. I'm doing better. Coming to terms with everything work-wise._ Chloe erases the last part, but immediately types it again and sends it.

_That's good. Whatever the outcome is, I doubt it's your fault_

Chloe lightly smiles, contentedness washing over her.

She had never felt like this about another woman; being with another woman never even crossed her mind.

It didn't feel wrong, in any conceivable way.

She figures that the connection she has with this person doesn't just cease because they are two women.

_Thank you. I appreciate it. So, not to be too forward but, where and when?_

* * *

Frank walks through the door.

Chloe is reading a book on the couch. He's thirty minutes late, but at least he's showed up.

"I'll write an article about it," he states. He stands in front of her like an ox.

"Thank you, Frank."

"Should we break up?"

Chloe wants to be surprised, but she's not. She's glad he's brought it up because at this rate she never will.

"I think so, Frank."

Frank nods.

"I'll still write the article."

(Chloe had called him last night, asking if they could talk and clear things over. He mentioned writing an article on Mitchell Books taking over and possibly kicking The Shop Around the Corner out, as long as Chloe gave him permission.)

When Frank leaves, as hastily as he entered, with a kiss on her cheek and a quick, chaste hug, it's both freeing and frustrating that a three-year relationship, strung along for two simply because Chloe didn't end it, ends just like that.

* * *

Beca's peeling garlic. She's attempting beef and barley stew for the first time. She needs something to warm her up and keep her fed for a few days.

In the back of her mind, she's thinking about work. What she's actually focused on is this woman, how soon they are planning on meeting.

It feels like they've been talking for years. She's nervous and thrilled and scared. Mostly, thrilled.

It feels as if the relationship took an abrupt turn. They were on eggshells, wondering if it's real. Now, very suddenly, it's very real and they're meeting and they send hearts at the end of their notes and Beca doesn't want to be too presumptuous but this woman flirts with her. Blatantly, now.

Her onions pass aromatic and they start to burn. Maybe her cooking skills need more tending to.

The first time she has her name printed in an article, it's exciting, if not a bit strange.

It's still weird to see her name in the newspaper, to say the least.

Especially when it's negative.

She walks into work and every person she comes across asks the same thing.

" _Did you see the article?"_

When she sits down at her desk, she immediately looks up _The Shop Around the Corner._

She reads it over, noting the journalist's name at the bottom of the page.

_Frank Navaskey_

And Beca knew something like this was bound to happen, someone was bound to write about this unfolding situation, she just didn't think it would specifically be against her.

* * *

For a week, their customer intake rises rapidly. They sell more books than ever, they have more people visiting than before; for a week, things are looking up.

And then the hype dies down.

And then Chloe feels guilty that Beca was practically slandered in an NYT article.

Frank wrote some nasty things, some things that Chloe didn't even think were true (she wonders how Frank could know, before realizing it's all lies). Beca isn't evil, she bought her groceries. She buys flowers on Saturday mornings.

She's not a fan of the woman, but defaming her character is too harsh.

And it didn't do any good, anyway.

* * *

She's eating dinner late, like after midnight late, because she took a long nap after work. She misses three calls from her dad, surely him wishing to berate her for the backlash against the company after the article was published, as if she has anything at all to do with what was said.

It's not as if it was an interview.

It doesn't make the sinking feeling of how badly she hates her job any better. It makes her feel like a sellout.

She almost wanted to quit then and there, on the spot after reading the article. It was nothing legit, full of why Mitchell Books is insidious, how she (single-handedly, as it's written) is trying to shut down a little business, a children's bookstore at that, in the heart of the Upper West Side; it makes sense why people are eating it up.

So, she does what she does when she's down. She checks her email.

_I'm sorry we haven't met yet. I know it feels like we keep moving it back and I'm sorry about that. I've been busy with work. Things were better but now I'm not so sure. Again, I'm sorry for moving our meeting around so much._

_I just wanna ask,_

And then, Beca hears a ding, and suddenly there's a message box in her face.

_Hmm, how are we on at the same time so often now?_

Beca smirks. _We're just so connected. Why are you up this late? It's almost 1._

_Not feeling well._

_I'm sorry. A cold?_

_I feel blue._

_Maybe sleep will help?_

_Yeah maybe, I'll get to bed soon._

_I was just reading your last email. I haven't finished it yet, but we can meet whenever you're ready._

_Thank you. I'd love to right now if we could. I guess it's a bit too late for meeting strangers online though._

Beca laughs, wondering if there's ever a right time of day to meet strangers online.

* * *

"So you're meeting him? Soon, then?"

For the last thirty minutes, Chloe has been listening to Emily hypothesize what this man Chloe has been talking to may look like. It may sound like an exaggeration, but Emily literally has been talking about the endless possibilities for half an hour.

(They had talked about the shop too, how it's definitely going to shut down, Chloe just doesn't know when exactly, and Emily was as understanding and apologetic as can be. "I'll have more time for school, and friends, and well, you'll have more time for... books and this guy.") 

Chloe nods. "Hopefully."

Emily giggles, squealing almost. "That's so exciting!"

Chloe moves around a pack of dogs being walked, bumping lightly into Emily. She has never seen so many Golden Retrievers.

"It is."

"You need something good in your life."

"Gee, thanks, Em."

"Well," Emily says, like she's trying to correct herself, "I just mean… with the business, and breaking up with Frank… maybe this is like… a new chapter!"

Chloe laughs softly. "I guess it could be."

"God, what if he's a part of the mob?"

"I don't think so, Emily."

"You never know. He could be part of the Colombo crime family. You don't know this man."

"I don't, you're right, but… he doesn't strike me as a mobster."

"Well let's hope not."

"Did you want to stop for a coffee?"

"Sure," Emily says, "What if he's 60?"

"Em, please," Chloe says, "We're around the same age."

"So you don't know?"

"Thirty-two," Chloe says, matter-of-factly.

"An older man…"

"By less than a year."

"Still…"

"Emily, you're being too… paranoid. I'm the one who should be paranoid. Not you."

"Don't sound so pessimistic."

"I guess I'm just nervous."

"Nervous? Are you not in love with this guy?"

It doesn't feel like it should be a big deal, but she knows it very well might be. Emily is kind, and open, and empathetic; Chloe knows her. She doesn't, however, know if… something like this, which is already not normal, between two women seals the deal for deviance.

"Emily, can I be honest?"

"Yes, of course."

They keep walking. Chloe tries to say what she wants to, but it won't come out.

"What?" Emily presses, "Oh my god, Chlo, he's the rooftop killer, isn't he?"

"What?" Chloe says, incredulous. Where is she getting that?

"I saw it in the newspaper, oh my god, I saw something about a man being caught in the middle of a crime, about to kill…"

"Uh, no," Chloe says, attempting reassurance, "No, that isn't it. As far as I know."

"Oh, good," Emily says, "Okay, spill."

Chloe has already dug the hole, might as well sit snug there.

"I've been talking to a woman."

"A woman?"

"Yeah."

Chloe doesn't look at her, worried it's a negative reaction, as the tone of Emily's voice turned too even to tell.

"I guess that makes sense."

Chloe looks at her, and she's smiling, "Why's that?"

"Well," Emily says, laughing lightly, "You did say they listened."

* * *

_You still want to meet me, right?_

* * *

_Yes. Anytime._

* * *

Monday night at eight isn't ideal for a date, but if they don't do it tonight and right now, Chloe's worried it won't get done at all.

She's sitting in the corner of the cafe they both agreed upon. It's past dinner, it's practically empty save for two people at separate tables, buried into books. She's considering ordering hot chocolate or another cup of tea and a slice of cake. She flips the menu around a couple of times, absently reading the cafe's name over and over again until a man is asking if anyone is using the other chair; when she says yes it begins to worry her that she may be getting stood up. She hasn't been waiting too long, but it's long enough, for this being a date, to be a possible stand up.

She would like to think that she's not like that. Though, it's not like she actually knows her.

She's staring out of the window, hoping it's not what this has led up to. Talking for months, eager to meet, and yet… stood up?

"Would you like to order something else?"

"More tea, please."

"Sure." The waiter grabs her cup, the paper from the teabag.

"Thanks." This is embarrassing. She's obviously here to meet someone. She's wearing red lipstick.

Maybe she walked in and couldn't find her, maybe Chloe saw her and of course didn't know it to be her. She told her that she would be wearing a white blouse with a red coat with daffodils on the table. Maybe that wasn't specific enough.

Maybe she took one look at her and left.

The front door of the cafe opens; Chloe perks up, eyeing the prospect of whoever is entering.

They look eerily similar to Beca. The lighting is dim, the shadows surely helping to feign.

"Oh, Jesus," Chloe mumbles, realizing it actually is her.

She looks away when Beca glances in her direction.

 _No, no, no, no…_ Chloe mentally repeats, staring out the window.

She's walking over. Why, why, would she be?

"Hello, there."

Chloe waves at her. She won't look.

"I guess we are seeing each other again."

"I guess we are."

"Can I sit here?"

Chloe looks at her this time, _how presumptuous is she?_

"I'm actually expecting someone."

"Oh, you know," Beca says, seemingly ignoring her. "I'm glad we've run into each other. I wanted to thank you for all the things your boyfriend wrote about me. I've always wanted to be slandered in a major news publication."

"I had nothing to do with that," Chloe says, insistent. She feels bad about the article, but she's not going to take the blame.

"Oh, no?" Beca says, "I wouldn't be surprised if you helped to write it, after all, you seem like the writer type."

"Do you mind?"

"I do, actually."

Chloe feels speechless. Beca's staring at her with an intensity Chloe's never seen in her; not even when Frank was directly calling her names. She sits down.

The waiter sets Chloe's tea down in front of her, asking Beca if she wants anything. Before Chloe realizes it, she's saying, "No, she's not staying, she's just leaving."

Beca continues looking at her. "Coffee, decaf."

A beat that Chloe hates. "Please."

"No, Beca, please, come on," Chloe says, practically pleading. "You're not staying."

"I'll stay until your friend gets here," Beca says, then dramatically looks at her watch. "God, are they late?"

"Maybe there's traffic."

"Hm," Beca makes, "No… not likely for this time of day."

"Well, you know how cabs can be."

"I walked. I live near."

"How was I to know that?"

"If you really knew me, maybe…"

"If I really knew you, I would only like you less, I don't doubt it."

"I don't know about that," Beca says this like she's oh so sure of herself. If Chloe stops to think about it, Beca seems like a different person. In previous meetings, she was relatively reserved, and quiet, now she's brash and harsh and seemingly passing immediate judgments.

The waiter gives Beca her drink, and someone else walks in the cafe, so Chloe zeros in. It's an old man and his wife.

Beca smirks at her, faux apologetic.

"Please go," Chloe says. "Can we just… let it go, I mean, what does it matter?"

"I guess you're right," Beca says. It sounds sarcastic. Someone else walks in; it's a man in a mask with a cape.

"I take it, that's not them, either."

Chloe forces a tight smile. She almost forgot why she's here.

"I assume you're not waiting for the journalist who said I was the killer of the novel. Or are you?"

"I am not," Chloe says. "As a matter of fact, we broke up."

"Oh, well," Beca says, pausing. She looks almost hopeful and Chloe's not sure why.

"Why?"

Chloe scoffs. "None of your business."

"Do you have a date, then?" Beca asks. "Already?"

"This is none of your business."

"And will you be hostile to them, too?"

"Hostile?" Chloe says, she knocks her hand against her tea. She feels more and more nervous as time goes. She leans across the table so she doesn't yell. "I am not hostile."

"Well," Beca says, making a _kinda_ gesture.

"I won't be hostile because the person I'm seeing is kind, and sweet, and funny, and is a good person with good morals," Chloe says this like she's spitting it out, "but, I guess you wouldn't know about that."

"But… this person isn't here. I am."

"Well, I'm sure there's a reason."

"Hopefully," Beca says, smirking. "For your sake."

Beca picks up one of the daffodils Chloe brought. "I remember when you told me you loved daffodils."

"Oh, when would I have said that to you!"

"You don't remember?"

"Why are you even here?"

"Like, I said. I'm in the neighborhood."

"And? What, you like bothering me? Am I gonna find something else out about you tonight that will make me hate you even more?"

Beca does a mix of a laugh and a huff. She leans back, casually. "Who knows."

"God, you know, I've wanted to ask you…" Chloe says. She feels so unfairly angry. At Beca and her careless demeanor, at this person who has almost definitely stood her up, at her business nearly folding. She thought this night would be nice. She's trying to be tough and not to be rude and she tries to employ kindness always, to everyone, but the very sight of Beca, sitting here in front of her, her brown eyes mischievous, her smirk plastered that won't go away, and her button-up that fits loosely, but really very nicely on her, and… her neck, she notices how soft it looks, and her hair falls in this beautiful way that looks effortless, and she is actually attractive in an _I don't care_ kind of way...

She just begins talking. "Do you even like your job? Do you? What's so fun about working for a new corporation that sells cheap books, is impersonal, probably only going to franchise and expand, and runs people out of business? Is the money that good or something? Really, tell me, do you like it that much or is your brain just a cash register and your heart a bottom line?"

As soon as she takes a sizeable breath, she realizes how uncomfortable Beca now looks. She's the Beca she met in her bookstore, the Beca she met at the party, the Beca she met at the grocery.

She feels guilty, and angry, and almost smitten with her. She wonders how and why this woman makes her feel so much all at once.

"That's my cue," Beca quietly says, tossing a few dollars on the table. "Goodnight, Chloe."

She watches her leave.

She waits for fifteen more minutes.


	4. lovers that bless the dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda feel the need to say that some of this section isn't apart of the movie in any way... just so if you have seen it, there's no confusion. thanks xx

She exits the cafe, nearly running, she's so desperate to get out of there. She walks a block, trying not to scream. It feels like a cruel joke.

"Jesus, what the fuck?" Beca finds herself shouting, unable to keep it together. She's usually not this open in public, but surrounding circumstances call for it.

Once she starts, she can't stop.

"God, what the fuck… literally, how is this possible?!"

She stands in the middle of the sidewalk, hanging her head back and groaning, eyes squeezed tight trying to wake herself up; it has to be a bad dream she's in the middle of.

(She knew it was Chloe the second she looked through the front window into the cafe and saw her there cooped up in the corner, exactly as she said she would be. She saw the white blouse, the red coat, the daffodils. However strange it may have been, however nonsensical, however coincidental, she knew Chloe was that very woman.

Whatever had followed upon seeing her there was pure, unadulterated impulsivity.)

* * *

As she's walking home, she tells herself that she's not going to check her email. She's going to wait it out, see what happens.

The first thing Chloe does when she gets home is turn her computer on and wait for the hopeful sound of _You've Got Mail!_

She can't help herself.

There has to be a reason.

Apparently, there is none.

* * *

"So, how'd it go?" Emily excitedly asks from about six feet away.

Chloe smiles, attempting to not come across as anything other than neutral. When she gets closer to Emily, she says, "She couldn't make it."

Emily stands there, her mouth hung comically wide. "She stood you up?"

Chloe unlocks the store, shaking her head. "I don't want to think of it like that."

As they walk in Emily says, "Well, how are you thinking of it?"

"Maybe something happened."

"Okay, like what?"

Emily follows her to the back of the store where they are sorting through which books to mark as discounts.

"I don't know, could've been anything."

Emily talks about how awful standing someone up is, and then Chloe says, "I mean, what if something happened? Something horrible, something that makes it impossible for her to… what if she showed up, she took one look at me, and she left?"

Emily tilts her head at her like she's saying as if. "Not possible."

She watches Emily stack dime novels. "Maybe there was a subway accident. A train derailed?"

"Absolutely," Emily says, clearly humoring her. "How long did you sit there alone?"

"Not long," Chloe says, brushing it off. "Beca Mitchell came in."

"Beca Mitchell?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"And I don't wanna be pushy but, she hasn't emailed you, then?"

"Not yet," Chloe says. "If it was a car accident, she may not be able to."

"I guess you could be right," Emily says, "or I could be right."

"About what?" Chloe asks. She grabs a box of children's books from the 50s.

Emily grabs the first book she can, flips through it, and says, "Mobster."

"Em," Chloe does a mixture of a laugh and a sigh. "If she couldn't make it, she had a good reason. I know it."

* * *

_I didn't want to email right away, but I've been thinking about you._

_The other night as I waited for you, someone else showed up. Actually, the person who is responsible for my business going under, somehow, was there. She brings out the worst in me. I'm so, so rude and I feel like a totally different person when I'm around her. Every time I see her, it's like any thought I have just flys out of my mouth. No matter what she's done, there is no excuse for being so... hostile to her._

_I guess I wanted to share this with you because I feel like I've been portraying myself to be this really nice person who never does or says anything wrong._

_I feel the need to tell you something. It should have been said already, and I'm sorry that it wasn't, but while we've been talking, I was dating someone. A man. For about three years. It was serious until it wasn't. It kind of just ended. We never ever talked about breaking up, we kind of just did. I know it's wrong, I've known it's wrong. I hope this doesn't make you dislike me. I would understand if it did. I hope there's a reason for why you didn't show up. I was so looking forward to meeting you. I hope you're okay, and that nothing bad has happened to you._

_I was thinking that the odd thing about this form of communication is that you're more likely going to talk about nothing than something, so I just wanna say that all of this nothing has meant more to me than so many somethings._

_If you want to end it, I understand._

Beca closes her laptop. If only there were a guidebook for this sort of thing.

She nervously paces around the kitchen, her cat thinking it's a game. She scratches at Beca's ankles.

She tries to ignore it.

She's not going to reply. She's going to let this go. There's no way it can go on. It won't work, she knows it won't work. They hate each other, they do, it was the veil of anonymity that made it so they didn't. They are practically natural lifelong enemies, not friends, or lovers, or whatever this has been.

She tries to distract herself. There's mail to go through, dishes to do, garbage to take out. Where she would usually ignore it and pass it on for tomorrow, she does it eagerly, hoping to erase Chloe out of her mind.

Though it seems what she should do, she doesn't feel like she can just… let this go. She knows she could. She could never email again, never speak to the Chloe she knows as Beca, cut off any and all contact there ever could be from this day forward.

She can't believe she's wound up here in this situation.

Then, she realizes it's not only her in the land of here.

Chloe doesn't know it's her. Chloe doesn't know she has been talking to her this whole time, Chloe doesn't know that she's not in on what's happening.

It feels like she has an obligation to answer her.

She makes it an hour before sitting back down at her computer, struggling with what to say. Honesty would be the best policy, but how would she even go about it?

 _I'm in… Spain,_ Beca types. So, not honesty.

"Sure, you are," she mumbles.

She backspaces. She bites down on her lip in thought, trying to find an explanation, any explanation.

She types, hastily, _I was stuck in a meeting which I could not get out of. The electricity went out. And I was trapped on the 44th floor. And had no telephone._

Beca huffs at herself. She erases it. Her mind is blank.

Chloe was rude and snippy, and Beca doesn't think she had one ounce of nice in her at that cafe. But Beca knows she was rude, and snippy, and provoked Chloe, too (and probably first). She saw her there and walked in with the intent to hurt her.

She tries to rationalize, to be mature, which is hard to do when there is such strong animosity fogging her brain.

When she tries to string words together, she can't stop the anger she feels. She can't picture Chloe without becoming mad, can't imagine her sitting across from her, so certain that the hate between them is fresh and real and never-ending, so ready to say something she knows will hurt, will twist the knife in and further. Beca wonders if Chloe is naturally feisty, or if when provoked, she really knows what to say.

After anger subsides, the fact they connected so instantly, without intention, is there. She wonders if it is possible that anything between them is salvageable. Apparently, after all, she likes a version of Chloe and Chloe likes a version of her.

She starts typing.

_I don't feel like I can tell you what happened the other night and you will be satisfied with my answer, but I hope that you can forgive me for what happened._

_I'm not sure what to say about the relationship thing. If you had a boyfriend, you had a boyfriend. Thanks for being honest._

_I'm sorry you were in a situation that caused you more pain than necessary. I doubt you were mean for no reason. I bet you were instigated and bothered and I'm sorry that happened. Everyone says things they don't really mean when they are stressed or anxious. It happens. It happens to me and I'm sure it happens to you._

_The bottom line here is that you were expecting me, someone you trusted, and met the opposite instead. I want to tell you what happened, and why I wasn't there, but I don't feel like I can._

_For now, if you still want me to be, I'm here._

* * *

"So that's it?" Emily says. They're walking along the harborfront. It's a cold morning in December, a week before the store closes.

"Yeah."

"Nothing about meeting again?"

"No," Chloe says, like it doesn't affect her whatsoever, then, "Who knows, maybe we will just email for the rest of our lives."

"Well, that would be no fun."

* * *

The Shop Around the Corner closes December 23rd. Chloe doesn't have a choice.

It has taken longer for them to actually close than estimated, so at least there's that.

By the time they do close, she has come to terms with it, mostly. She's looking forward to free time, hoping she will write that children's book like she's been wanting to do for so many years.

They have a huge sale, 50% off of everything, and it's nice having so many people coming in and out of the store. For three days, it's reminiscent of only mere months ago.

People tell her how sad they are to see her go, how it's such a travesty, and how they had been coming into the shop for years now, how they love it so much.

On the last day of operation, she had to give a box of tissues to an older lady who wouldn't stop crying about her closing, saying how it was so unfair that a quaint, wholesome bookstore has to shut down in the name of price gouging. She doesn't disagree.

* * *

Emails become infrequent.

Somehow, they've begun almost exclusively talking on instant messenger. It's like they've set up an accidental schedule.

The guilt though has only grown.

Beca's not trying to string it along, to lie to Chloe, trick her into thinking the person she's been talking to still cares for her.

As much as she wishes she didn't care for Chloe, she does. She doesn't know why she can't quit her. It would be so convenient if as soon as she found out this woman to be Chloe every ounce of attachment she had vanished.

Maybe it's wrong to know that Chloe was in a relationship while they emailed and not instantly want to ax their relationship. Maybe it's wrong to know the truth and not share it with her. Maybe it's wrong to even have a slither of love for this woman. She doesn't really know; the situation is untouched and unfamiliar.

They're going back and forth, talking about their day. Beca mentions work, how it's not magically gotten better but it's become more tolerable. Chloe mentions how she keeps accidentally sleeping in until ten. She explains how she's going to get a cat after all because she wants a companion. She says she's excited for the New Year because she's practicing positivity and being a better person.

There's this palpable genuineness Chloe talks with that Beca admires. It makes what she's doing feel selfish, manipulative, and wrong. She needs to figure out a way to tell Chloe the truth.

* * *

By complete accident, she passes Mitchell Books while on a walk one night.

She's feeling down. She's bored without her work. Her relationship with this woman isn't the same. They still talk, but there's been a shift.

(Ever since closing, Chloe tries to analyze herself; how she has operated under this radar that consists of she's _good_ , Beca's _bad_ because of their respective positions. It doesn't seem to be as simple as that.)

Chloe figures going inside of the bookstore. It's those days between Christmas and the New Year where nothing feels right or real anyway.

It's a beautiful, towering building. She wonders what it housed before, what it possibly took out to live there.

When she walks in, it's almost like an amusement park. There are books, of course, but there are also various artifacts in glass cases, maps of different countries painted on the walls. There are dozens of people; some browsing, some trailing behind their kids, some drinking cappuccinos at the cafe.

They have a magazine section, a reference section, a complete section on dogs (How to Care for Your Golden Retriever, among many others). There are tote bags with their logo on them. Tote bags. Why hadn't she thought of that?

On the second floor, it's the kid's section. There's puzzles, toys, stuffed animals resembling loved characters, parents reading their kid's stories. The walls are painted similarly to a pediatrician's office.

It's louder on the second floor, rightfully so as kids enjoy themselves. She weaves through aisle after aisle, noting how they have books her store didn't. Kid's fawn over old classics, new books that are soon to be.

She takes a seat at a kid's table that feels relatively secluded, her knees hitting her chest. She looks around. She can almost feel herself beginning to cry. It really is a beautiful store. She didn't expect it to be. She thought it would be ugly and impersonal and cold.

For some time, she just sits there. It very well might be strange.

A woman behind her, to a presumed employee, says, "Do you guys have the shoe books?"

"Who's the author?"

Chloe rolls her eyes.

"I'm not sure. My friend told me my daughter has to read the shoe books, so here I am."

He doesn't reply, so she does.

"Noel Streatfeild."

"Sorry?"

She turns to them. "Noel Streatfeild. Noel Streatfeild wrote _Ballet Shoes_ , and _Skating Shoes_ , and _Theatre Shoes_ , and _Dancing Shoes_. My favorite is _Ballet Shoes_."

She's teary-eyed and it's embarrassing but she can't control herself.

"How do you spell that?" He then asks.

After giving them adequate information, she gets ready to leave.

Her life has taken a full 180. She's single, career-less, crying in the middle of a Mitchell Books.

She needs takeout and ice cream cake.

_She needs to get it together._

She's walking down the spiral staircase as she spots Beca at the bottom beginning to walk up. In no way should this catch her off guard; of course she would be here. It's just that she assumed she would have a slim chance of running into her seeing as the store is huge and Beca is corporate.

If only their track record had come to mind.

Chloe abruptly turns. In her rationale, she would heel turn and begin walking back up to the top floor. That does not happen. Instead, she turns, but something somewhere is off, and she slips, her knee hitting the next stair up, her right wrist twists as she throws her hands out to stop her fall. She lands haphazardly across a few steps.

"Ohmygod," Chloe says all at once, wincing, _what's wrong with me._

She sits there on the stairs, zoning out, trying to reel herself in.

It takes a few moments until she hears Beca's voice.

"Uh, Chloe?"

"Hi."

"Are you okay?"

"I slipped."

"Do you need help?"

She goes to stand but quickly realizes she cannot without a sharp pain in her ankle, one she's felt never before. She yelps, barely coming off the step, her arm flying out and happening to grab onto Beca's forearm.

"Maybe," Chloe says, finally looking at Beca. She looks surprisingly concerned.

"Here." Beca allows her to hold her arm, extending her other hand to her. She takes it. Beca gets her back on her feet, helping her up the few stairs to the second floor as the top is closer than the bottom.

"Can you walk?" Beca asks once they reach the flat surface.

"Yeah," Chloe says, trying to brush it off, "I'm fine."

When she takes a step on her own, her knee nearly gives out, but she's able to fully stand almost immediately after.

Beca helps her sit down at an empty kids table. It's very miniature.

Beca sits next to her. Their knees hitting their chest. "I didn't know you were clumsy."

Chloe huffs. "I'm not. I just slipped," she says, reaching down to rub her ankle.

"Ah, okay," Beca says, not sounding convinced. "Well, we can use the elevator to get down."

"Yeah," Chloe says, thinking that she must have manifested this encounter (realistically, no she didn't. Beca works here.).

She looks at Beca who is already looking at her. Her eyes no longer convey any hint of mischief. She looks anxious. It makes Chloe feel guilty.

"God, why do you look like that?" Chloe says, shaking her head. "Worried, like a puppy or something."

Beca doesn't reply right away. Chloe realizes her words were unfair, she goes to apologize but Beca begins speaking.

"Maybe I'm worried because you've hurt yourself in my store and, if you really wanted to, could sue me."

"Well," Chloe says, sighing, "Perhaps, if I really wanted to, I will."

"Yeah," Beca says, scoffing, and Chloe notices how she's sitting, leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers clasped, and she's in this fancy pantsuit, and something about it lights this rush inside of her chest.

"Get even with me, right?"

"Right," Chloe states. She's ignoring it.

Chloe tests standing again, causing her visible pain.

"Maybe don't stand just yet."

"It only hurts when I stand on it."

"Yeah, that's bad," Beca says, "should I call an ambulance?"

"No, I just need a second," Chloe rushes out as she sits back down. "I'll be fine."

"Okay," Beca says, leaning away. "But, really…"

"In case you've conveniently forgotten," Chloe says, clenching her jaw, still there is something about Beca that induces spite, "I am out of a job since you put me out of business. I don't really feel comfortable calling an ambulance on a zero dollar salary."

Then, immediately, she's apologizing. "Oh, ugh, I don't mean to say things like that, it's like I see you and…"

"And it just flys out of your mouth."

"Yes!"

Beca nods as if she knows. "I put you out of business. You're entitled to hate me."

Chloe waits a second before replying. 

"I don't hate you."

"You just don't like me."

"I don't know you."

And when Chloe says it, it's almost like a revelation.

Chloe looks at her, meeting her seemingly determined gaze. Quite suddenly, she feels sheepish, her cheeks feel hot.

They sit there quietly for a moment.

"Do you want to go to the hospital?"

"No."

Beca points at her wrist, "It looks like its swelling."

Before Chloe can think of a reply, Beca touches her wrist with her pointer finger, as gently as possible, almost like she's trying to see for herself if it feels swollen or not.

Chloe just nods. She feels breathless. She tells herself that it could be for many reasons.

* * *

It doesn't make total sense, but Chloe is learning that this very may well be how life works.

Beca offers to drive her home, rather insistently, after Chloe felt able to semi-walk and would not allow herself to be driven to the hospital.

("Well, I'll drive you home then."

"Oh, no, I'm fine. I can walk."

"You're limping."

"Maybe I've always limped.")

Beca's quiet during the car ride, save for when she tries to make a shitty joke. Chloe assumes it's to lighten the mood.

She feels childish for showing hate to her. Though Beca is as an aspect of the reason why she is out of business, and it is all too possible that her date saw her there with Beca and left, it all seems so inconsequential now. It feels like a waste of energy to be mad about her business, to carry on with this resentment when her store doesn't exist anymore. She figures she can be sad, just not harbor hate.

Chloe then realizes - dreads - that she will have to ask Beca to help her up the stoop, then up a flight of stairs.

When the time comes, Beca helps her without question.

It's possible Beca may not be evil or a horrible person after all.

(She thinks she may have known that from the beginning but was clouded by anger and frustration and impending uncertainty.)

Chloe is leaning against the stair railing, staring at Beca as she stands at the front of the stoop staring at it like she's trying to discern what the best way to go about it will be. During the ride, due to her stillness, her ankle began to hurt more. 

"If I wasn't shorter than you I might be able to carry you up bridal style," Beca says. Another joke, Chloe assumes.

"Maybe we can just walk up," Chloe says, kind of smiling, but not quite.

"Yeah," Beca says, nodding.

They stand there for a moment.

"Are you in pain?" Beca asks.

"Yes," Chloe says, nodding vigorously. She's accepted that Beca is the one helping her through this ordeal (which feels almost like a weird joke played on her by the universe) and somehow she will make it up to her.

"Okay," Beca says.

She offers her hand out to Chloe. When she takes it, Beca says, "I'm gonna wrap it around my shoulder," then does just that. Chloe puts weight on her ankle and that same sharp pain hits her, her knee close giving out again; she grabs onto the side of Beca's neck, which only makes Beca say, "Oh, ow."

"I'm sorry," Chloe says, thankfully then able to fully stand. She wraps her arm around Beca's shoulder.

"It's okay," Beca says, reassuringly. She slides her arm around Chloe's waist, almost cautiously, like she's afraid to.

"It's okay."

"You're okay?"

"Yeah."

They make it up the five-step stoop. Chloe pulls her keys out of her coat pocket, relieved they are still there. Beca offers to open the door, mentioning that Chloe should at least, at some point, go to the doctor for this. Then, they resume the position they were in and Chloe verbally guides Beca to her apartment. She's nervous for her to see it, for whatever reason. Chloe's (almost) done with rationalizing.

When they get to her front door, Chloe says that if she wants, she can come in, but she can also leave, and that's totally fine, and then she starts thanking Beca, profusely, it's like she cannot stop saying thank you.

"I'll come in if you want," Beca says, casually.

They stand there, Chloe fiddling with her keys.

"I want... I wanted to apologize for being so mean at the cafe," Chloe says, whispering as she realizes it's far past midnight.

"I wasn't the nicest either," Beca says, mimicking her whisper.

They walk inside, Chloe guiding them over to her breakfast nook of a table.

"Thank you for taking me home, you really didn't have to do that."

"Well, you were hurt… what was I supposed to do? Leave you there?" Beca says, laughing slightly. She helps Chloe sit down, then stays standing in front of her, as awkwardly as ever.

Chloe finds it endearing.

"Thank you for buying my groceries, too," Chloe says, "that was really nice of you and I just kind of... I don't know I guess I didn't know if... I should be nice to you. Which is so stupid."

"I get it," Beca says like she's trying to justify it, brush it off. "Like I said, I am kind of the enemy."

Chloe shakes her head. "I don't feel like that's an excuse."

"Chloe, it's fine," Beca says, like she's becoming frustrated. "I've been shitty, too, don't take all the credit."

"It's just," Chloe says, and it's as if she cannot control it. "At that party months ago, I let Frank just… talk to you like that. You weren't even really doing anything. I didn't even know you. I let you buy my groceries and I barely thanked you."

"You paid me back," Beca says, shrugging slightly.

"That's not the point," Chloe says. She's not even sure she knows her point. "When Frank wanted to write that article, I promise I didn't even read it beforehand, and I didn't condone it after it was published, but, I encouraged him to write it, knowing something like that would happen. I was horrible to you at the cafe because I had been so, so stressed about my business, and I was supposed to be meeting someone I thought was honestly going to change my life. And I didn't, and you were there instead, and... I guess it was too much."

Chloe takes a short breather, only to continue. "And now I don't have a business. And it feels like all of this anger and frustration I have towards you is pointless."

"Well… thank you," Beca says, tentatively, "I mean, I'm sorry too. It… none of it… it was never personal."

"I've heard that before," Chloe says, huffing. She turns away slightly. "I'm not sure I agree."

"I just mean running you out of business isn't something I'm proud of, okay?" Beca shoots out. It seems a sensitive subject. "I don't wake up in the morning thinking, oh great, I've run someone out of their livelihood. Should I do it again today?"

She seems so honest Chloe believes her.

"Maybe we haven't been the warmest to each other."

"I agree."

"I wish we could have met differently, I really do." She means it.

"Yeah," Beca says, visibly gulping. Chloe waits a moment, wondering if she will continue.

When she doesn't, Chloe says, "thank you again for… helping me home." She almost forgets the circumstances. The pain dwindles.

Beca does an _mmhmm_ as she nods.

"How's the ankle?" Beca asks, beginning to slowly move around the table and into the kitchen.

"I think it'll be fine," Chloe says, only watching her curiously.

"Ice?" Beca asks, opening the fridge.

"There," Chloe confirms.

She grabs her an ice pack, then a glass of water, and asks if she has ibuprofen. 

Beca helps her settle in. She doesn't leave right away.

They end up talking; Chloe sitting in bed, Beca sitting at the foot of it.

It feels wrongly intimate after hurling insults at her just days ago.

And they talk about nothing, but that's what makes it so exciting.


	5. on benches in central park

Beca stares up at Chloe’s building. She hadn’t got a good look at it the first time. It’s a classic Upper West Side brownstone. It feels very Chloe. 

It’s mid-January, and freezing, and she’s having trouble exactly like she knew she would. The snow sticks to her boots, dampens her pants, sits in her hair. She slips on ice multiple times a day. It’s embarrassing everytime. 

Her emails with Chloe are just as often. Maybe even more frequent. They talk about everything, from Chloe writing a children’s book about a funny little cat who gets up to different hijinks (and those are her words), to Beca explaining that she’s staying with the company she’s with, currently unsure of any other career move to make. 

It’s impossible not to talk to her. No matter what Beca does, not replying never works. 

There are days where she drafts emails of apology and half-explanation and there are days where she types out the truth, unfiltered. She never sends them. 

Daily, she tries to figure out how to tell her. She thinks she has finally come up with a plan both to confess and to discern if a relationship, of any kind, is there, lying in wait. 

She’s never found herself to be this proactive when it comes to any kind of relationship. It must mean something. 

She walks up the stoop steps, taking a breath to calm herself as she goes to ring the buzzer. She adjusts her coat, tightens the grip on the takeout she’s brought. She waits a minute, taps her foot nervously, waits a minute, contemplates pressing Chloe’s buzzer again, doesn’t, then does once more.

Still, no answer. She worries she’s bothering her. She’s showing up unexpectedly on a Saturday afternoon. That’s probably rude, isn’t it?

“Who is it?” hastily comes Chloe’s voice from the speaker. 

Beca hesitates, then steps closer to the intercom. “It’s Beca. Mitchell. Beca Mitchell.”

“ _Oh._ ” It’s full of surprise.

Beca shifts her weight, she’s beginning to sweat. Her idea that she would show up out of the blue and further attempt befriending Chloe may have been overzealous. She helped her after an injury weeks ago, and though they left on okay terms, Chloe’s hate may have rejuvenated, who knows.

“What,” Chloe says, sounding unsure. “What are you doing here?”

“Uh, well,” Beca says, stammering through it. “Can I please come up?” 

“No, no,” Chloe says, but she doesn’t sound mad, or even angry, in fact she sounds apologetic, and sniffly, like she’s sick. “I don’t really think that is a good idea, I have a really bad cold… I’m sneezing everywhere, I’ve been sleeping for hours, my apartment’s a mess.”

“Well I, uh,” Beca says, feeling slightly stupid for having such a hard time talking, “I brought you food.” She lifts the bag as if Chloe can see her. 

“Food?”

“Yeah. Takeout.”

“Come up.”

Chloe lets her in, asking if she remembers her apartment number. Beca says yes, that she’ll be right up, and walks inside, straight forward, up the stairs, to the right, then she’s there; and suddenly she feels she’s been too presumptuous. What if Chloe ends up not even liking her? What if their ease only goes as far as anonymity? It feels all too possible to not entertain. 

She’s already at her door, and told her she’s brought takeout, there is no point in running now. She knocks. 

It takes a moment, and a muffled _hold on, one second! Just one sec!,_ but Chloe opens the door, and she’s there in her pajamas, and a trench coat for some reason, smiling smugly like she’s trying to hide that she’s not sick, or something.

They say hello at the same time. 

Chloe’s hair is in a bun, but there’s so many loose chunks of hair falling out of it it’s as if the bun isn’t serving its purpose. Her curls frame her heavy, tired eyes, her face pale; really, she looks miserable. Seeing her in this state hits Beca, and for the first time she can ever recall, she has the overwhelming urge to take care of someone. 

“What are you doing here?” It’s inquisitive, almost like she’s second guessing Beca’s motives before even knowing what they are. 

“I was worried.” Beca had been gearing up the courage to visit her for over a week. She had practiced honesty during that time. “About you,” she clarifies. 

Chloe looks surprised, almost pleased. 

“And I… I just, I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Oh,” Chloe says, her voice taking on a raspy husk. Beca tries not to find anything she likes about it, though she notes she does. 

Beca notices sound coming from inside the apartment. She sticks her head in, paranoid she’s interrupting Chloe when she has someone over. Then, she comes to the (untrue) conclusion that Chloe has guests and that she’s intruding and definitely should have looked her up in the phone book, got her number, and called her first before dropping by, unannounced.

“What?” Chloe asks, clearly confused. 

“Is there someone here?” Beca asks, peeking further inside. 

“What? No. Oh,” Chloe says, sighing. It’s breathy so Beca decides it didn’t happen. “Home shopping network.”

As Chloe moves to grab the remote, Beca impulsively steps inside and closes the door behind her. Chloe doesn’t seem to mind, as she only turns the television off, then coughs into her arm. 

“Buy any of those tiny little porcelain dolls?” 

“I was thinking about it.”

Beca didn’t think she actually would. She laughs lightly, hoping Chloe is kidding. She sniffles.

Chloe stands there, staring at Beca with a slight dazed look. 

“I brought you Chinese,” Beca says, holding the bag up. “Szechuan's.” 

“Oh,” Chloe says, elongating it. “Thank you.” 

Beca lightly smiles at her, wondering if she’s high on cold medicine. She looks like she’s going to fall asleep on the spot, standing straight up. 

“Why don’t I,” - Beca takes a breather, she’s all too nervous - “why don’t I serve you.”

“Serve me?”

“You’re sick,” Beca says, plainly. She sets the food on the table, pulling out the solitary chair. “You should sit down.” 

She makes her way over to the table and sits. 

“I think I took too much Tylenol PM.”

Beca stays near, unsure what she means. “Like, overdosed?”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Well, I mean, I think it’s completely possible.”

“I feel light,” Chloe tilts her head, “like a flower.” 

Beca fixes her gaze at Chloe for a few moments, curious what she may do. She does nothing other than stare straight ahead. “Are you hungry?”

“I think so,” Chloe says, nodding. 

“I’ll get you a plate,” Beca says, moving into the kitchen. “Which is where?”

“Cabinets to the left of the stove,” Chloe says, then blows her nose.

“Ah, great.” She grabs a plate, not bothering with utensils knowing they gave her chopsticks. Then, though, she worries Chloe may not be able to use chopsticks. She herself has trouble. “Fork?”

“Drawer,” Chloe says, her head laying against the table. 

“Drawer,” Beca confirms. She opens two before finding a fork and spoon. 

“By the way,” Beca says, walking over to Chloe. “Emily, your employee - friend - she started yesterday.” 

“Oh, Emily,” Chloe says, sighing. She almost sounds pained. “Good. I’m glad you hired her.” 

“Well,” Beca sets the plate down on the table, making Chloe sit up, “I figured if you trusted her, she must be good.” 

Chloe then says, “I love Szechuan's.” 

Beca nods, opening up the first container. She eyes Chloe. “You told me.” 

“Have you had it?” Chloe asks, slurring slightly. She smiles through droopy eyes, Beca almost wants to tell her to forgo food and get into bed. She wonders if that’s what she’s interrupting. 

“I have.” Beca spoons rice, and then chicken chow mein, on a plate for Chloe, who she must say, does seem high. 

Chloe humms, like she’s had a burst of energy. “How’s work? I need someone to live vicariously through.”

“Tolerable,” Beca says, pushing the plate in front of Chloe. “I don’t really like it all that much.”

“Everyone hates their job,” Chloe says, shaking her head, like she cannot believe it. “You, this other woman I know. Frank, when they don’t approve of his articles.” 

Beca walks back into the kitchen. “Do you want tea?”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Chloe says. “I’ve been drinking tea all day.”

She grabs a glass of water instead. She comes back to Chloe pushing rice around with a spoon.

“How’s your ankle?” She sets the water down. 

“Fine, thank you,” Chloe says. “It doesn’t even hurt now.” 

“That is good,” Beca says, overenunciating for… effect. 

“When I saw you at the coffee place, I was actually waiting for uh… this woman.” 

Beca nods, she stands across the rounded table from Chloe. She wonders why she only has one chair. 

“A woman?” Beca tries to say this as even toned as possible.

“A wo... yes,” Chloe says, almost like she hadn’t realized what she shared, like she doesn’t want to acknowledge it, so Beca doesn’t. 

“Oh, I was…” Chloe sighs, shaking her head. She looks troubled.

“Charming,” Beca offers. 

Chloe scoffs, then sniffles, which turns into a cough. “I was not charming,” she says, in no way convinced. 

“You looked charming,” Beca says, meeting a confused look from Chloe, “I mean, you had a nice outfit on.”

“I was upset,” Chloe says, plainly. Beca has a feeling she isn’t going to eat. “And horrible.”

“Well, I think we went over this already.”

“We did.” Chloe closes her eyes and huffs. “And you put me out of business. And that’s okay.”

Beca doesn't know what to say. “We… we’ve also talked about that.”

Chloe looks at her, confusion palpable, “Why did you stop by again?”

“I was hoping we could be friends,” Beca says, cautiously. 

“Oh,” Chloe says, quietly. She stands up and walks over to her bed. Beca tries not to be offended that her admission doesn’t seem to mean much of anything to her. 

Beca stays standing near the table for a few moments, unsure if she should leave, unsure of what to say. She wants Chloe to know the truth, to have agency over her part in this relationship (or whatever the word that doesn’t exist for this is), it simply is that telling her feels too much to bear. She’s been rehearsing what to say when _it_ inevitably happens and it never sounds normal or natural or founded in reality.

_“Oh hey, it’s been me all along. Sorry. Would you want to get together?”_

It’s like, the most absurd thing… if only the honesty within the anonymity would, or could, carry over seamlessly. 

She casually begins walking over to Chloe, who is coughing, and sneezing, and who she wishes she could comfort. Which, again, makes it all the much worse. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“What?” 

“Well,” Beca says, she doesn’t know where to stand. She plants herself beside the foot of Chloe’s bed. She doesn’t want to pry into Chloe’s life anymore than she already has, and this may not be a wonderful time for questions as the woman is barely awake, but Beca fears that if they don’t allow for a palpable connection to be made, this is never going to work. 

“Did your date from the cafe… did that ever… go anywhere?”

Chloe sighs. “No.”

“But you want it to?” Beca asks, carefully. 

Chloe leans further back into her pillows. She sniffles. “Yes.” 

“But it can’t?” Beca walks around the bed and steps forward, only slightly so as not to invade personal space. “Because…”

“I don’t actually know her.” Chloe rushes out, her cheeks hot pink. 

“How did you meet?” It’s wrong, she knows it’s practically instigating. It _is_ instigating. 

Chloe looks so embarrassed, like she’s sobered up and is only now realizing that Beca is _here_ in _her_ _apartment_ while she’s in _bed_. Again. 

“Internet,” Chloe says, sheepishly. 

“Ah.” Beca nods her head. “Email?”

“Yes!” Chloe furrows her eyebrows, like she wonders how Beca could possibly know that. “I know it’s strange,” Chloe is then quick to say. 

“No.” Beca makes sure it’s a statement. 

“No?” She sounds in clear disbelief. She sits up, still with that trenchcoat on.

“No,” Beca says, “I…” she pauses, studying Chloe’s on edge look. She wants it to cease. “I am happy for her. And for you.” 

Chloe looks as if she wasn’t expecting that answer.

“I hope you two get to meet.”

Chloe smiles, still as if she is slightly uneasy. She notices Chloe’s comforter pooling near the bottom of the bed. She moves to cover Chloe with her blankets, offering to tuck her in (and reminds herself that she should probably put the food away). As she does so, she impulsively sits down, right on the edge of the bed, probably near Chloe’s upper thigh. She doesn’t have a plan anymore. She regrets it as soon as she does. 

Chloe just looks at her. 

Beca softly laughs, and for no other reason than nerves. 

She feels clueless. She has no idea what she’s doing. She’s nearly convinced she never did. 

She considers just spitting it all out. 

And then, Chloe’s hand is on top of her own, placed in the space between them. 

Beca looks down at their hands as Chloe wraps her fingers around Beca’s palm. She allows it and instinctively looks up. 

Chloe says, “Thank you for the food,” as soon as they make eye contact. 

“I hope you feel better.”

“I’m gonna make it up to you.” 

Beca tilts her head questioningly; Chloe evidently knows what she wonders. 

“I’m gonna make it up to you for your being so nice to me.” 

Beca smiles, she can’t help it. As if in some perfectly cliché moment, they hold a gaze that neither wants to end. 

“I’m going to put the food away.” Beca wouldn’t mind just sitting here with no time limit. 

Chloe nods, trying to mask a grin. She lifts her hand, only to slide her fingers along Beca’s wrist for a few moments that burn. Beca thinks - _knows_ , now - Chloe feels it between them, too. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


It takes two weeks to fully recover from a cold that works like the flu. 

Though she is nursing an ankle that tenses up if she is in certain positions for too long, she’s newly healthy, can still make her rent, is able to buy groceries whenever, and has gotten plenty of rest recently. She doesn’t feel that there is much she can get away with complaining about. 

And somehow, she has made a friend out of an enemy. 

It’s strange how quickly someone she despised has turned into someone she likes. 

She zoned out while instant messaging. Coming to, she sees: _You there?_

_Yes._ She sends it, then types, _I’ve been thinking about this and I think we should meet._

She’s taking a stern approach. She believes in this person. She believes they have something rare and worth it. She doesn’t want to back down. 

_We will. And soon._

After they end the chat, she considers calling Beca to thank her for helping her work up the courage to ask. 

(They exchanged phone numbers before Beca had left weeks ago. _Just in case,_ being Chloe’s reasoning.)

The other night, Chloe was mentioning to her that she really wants to meet this person, but it seems like it’s not going to happen. Beca kind of just bluntly said _well, ask and see what happens_. She said it with such _duh_ in her voice it seemed like the right thing to do. She picks up the phone, dials Beca’s number, and when she hears her voice, senses the quickened rush in her chest, she doesn’t question it. 

Beca almost regrets giving Chloe her number. She calls frequently and has terrible timing. The amount of times she has called while Beca is in the bathroom is insane. And she always leaves a voicemail. Everytime. _Hi, Beca. It’s Chloe. I must’ve caught you at a bad time._ Then, a variation of what she was doing and why it made her think to call her. 

And Beca always calls her back. 

Last night, Chloe had called (something she seems to be doing a lot, calling her right before bed) asking if she wants to meet for coffee, _say tomorrow?_ So, here Beca is, in a random coffee shop in the Lower East Side that Chloe says has the best banana chocolate chip muffins in the whole entire world. 

She arrives before Chloe so she grabs a window seat and waits. She wonders if she will ever not be nervous to see Chloe. 

It feels dishonest to agree to have coffee with her when they are in these strange circumstances. She almost regrets even attempting a relationship, feeling like she’s perpetuating a lie… and then Chloe passes by the window, waving eagerly as she walks inside, and Beca’s train of thought is replaced by Chloe in her heather grey overcoat.

“Hello!” Chloe says as she settles. She grasps at Beca’s forearm for no apparent reason other than to do so, to show she’s here with her. 

“Hello, yourself.” When Chloe naturally removes her hand, Beca instantly wants her touch back.

“How are you?” 

“I’m okay, cold.” Beca watches Chloe take her coat off. She sighs, kind of slumps over and smiles at Beca, who smiles right back. 

“How are you?” then says Beca.

“Well, I am great,” Chloe says, and she sort of just stares at her with this slight smile. It’s like they’re studying one another. 

“I am gonna get us those muffins I was telling you about.” She grabs some cash out of her purse, saying, “Do you want a coffee?”

“Oh, you don’t-” Beca starts to say.

“I do,” Chloe cuts in, “You know I do.”

Beca tries not to smile. Chloe’s smile, she is discovering, is infectious. 

And she tries not to watch Chloe as she walks over to the front counter, but she does. She gives in until Chloe turns around - Beca acting as if she wasn’t glued to her - to walk back over. 

And she finds that Chloe’s right about the muffins being the best ever.

After a while of easy small talk (which sticks out to Beca just as it did in their emails because small talk is like, the worst possible brand of talking, so for it to still feel effortless is relieving), Beca brings up the email escapades. 

“So,” Beca says, pausing, almost deciding to not go with her impending question, “How are those emails?”

Chloe only shrugs lightly, which has Beca taken aback. She thought Chloe would be happy to talk about it. 

“I’m still a little apprehensive I’m ever going to meet her.”

“I think you will.”

Chloe crumbles a napkin and tosses it on the table after using it. Like she’s signalling she’s given up. 

“If I do, I do, I guess.”

Beca begins to get nervous. She thought it was still going _okay_ , at the very least.   
  
“Have you lost feelings?” Beca says, regretting the bluntness immediately. 

“No,” Chloe says right away. She’s looking out the window, her eyes narrow in on any dog that passes, Beca notes. 

“You could be more pushy.” Then, when Chloe looks offended, Beca says, “Just so she knows you mean business.” 

“What is this? What, are you my wing woman now?” Chloe says, playfully. 

“No,” Beca says, attempting a playful tone back. “I just… I think whoever this is… they’re lucky to have you and… I don’t want her to lose you. Or anything.”

It makes Chloe blush, her cheeks turn a deep red. “Oh, Beca,” she says, shaking her head, laughing it off. 

Beca tries to be confident. “I’m serious. I mean, you’re smart, compassionate, and,” Chloe cuts her off right before she says beautiful, which may have been a good thing.

“Thank you, but don’t - don’t, it’s okay.” Chloe smiles at her but only barely.

Beca can’t figure out what she means exactly, but within no time, they find a rhythm that’s wholly their’s. 

* * *

At some point, they’ve taken to regular phone calls. Sometimes, they even replace Chloe’s nightly instant messaging. She feels guilty for allowing that, almost like she’s skimping out on her, but there is something about Beca that Chloe cannot get enough of. 

“Maybe she’s married,” Chloe says, tracing the patterns on her comforter. She’s lost track of the time they’ve been talking. Thirty minutes, maybe? 

“Married?” 

“Well, I don’t know.” 

“Do you think so?” Chloe can’t figure the tone of her voice.

“I would like to think she isn’t.”

“You don’t sound confident in your claim.” 

Chloe isn’t sure if she should be offended. “Well, hey, it’s not like she and I have a clean track record so far.”

“But you still wanna meet her?” 

Chloe frowns at her pushiness. “Yes. I just wonder why she’s not very eager to meet me. When I ask, she seems so… I don’t know… indifferent.”

“Well, maybe,” - she hears Beca shuffling around - “Maybe she’s nervous. Like I’ve been saying, Chloe, you are quite the catch.”

Chloe smiles to herself, scoffing a little. Beca, effortlessly, it seems, makes her feel good. She’d like to say she doesn’t know what to make of it, but she does.

* * *

  
  


“Are you dating anyone?” 

Beca stiffens. It’s so entirely out of the blue; they’re talking about movies, sharing favorites. Chloe says she has always loved Rita Hayworth, so _any Rita movie is mine._ Beca has to confess she’s never seen any of her movies, and that she actually doesn’t really like movies much. 

They’re sitting across from one another, sharing an appetizer of calamari at a mildly fancy restaurant in midtown. It’s unexpected. Beca hoped it would come up.

“Why?”

“Just curious,” Chloe says, reassuringly, apparently understanding Beca’s reaction. “I feel like we are always talking about me and my situation so I wanted to give you the opportunity to share.” 

“Oh.” Beca takes a bite of the table’s bread. She can’t help but be caught off guard.

“You don’t have to answer,” Chloe says, shifting in her seat, “if you are. Or aren't.”

“I’m not,” Beca says, simply. 

“Oh,” Chloe says, pointedly.

Beca goes to stab a piece of calamari with her fork, then notices Chloe’s smiling, lightly enough that it’s barely visible. It’s almost like she’s satisfied.

“What?” Beca says when they make eye contact.

“Nothing,” Chloe says, slightly shaking her head.

“What?” Beca pushes, but with a laugh so as not to seem angry, “Are you making fun of me?”

“No!” Chloe nearly shouts, “No, not at all! I was just curious.” 

She can tell Chloe’s nervous. Selfishly, it comforts Beca to know they are both a little unsure, treading on what feels like uncertainty. 

“Okay,” Beca only says. 

It takes a minute, and she’s hesitant, but she wants to try flirting.

Without looking at Chloe, as she’s focusing on her uneven ratio of calamari to sauce, she says, “I have someone in mind.” 

“Oh?” It’s eager and expectant.

“Mmhmmm,” Beca says, nodding, then taking a sip of water.

“Would I know this person?” Chloe asks, their eye contact shifty.

“I don’t know, you might,” Beca says, “It seems to be a small word.”

“Yes,” Chloe says, nodding, “you are right about that.”

There’s a few moments of silence before Chloe asks, “Where are you from again?” 

“Uh, California.”

“New York must be popular among Californians.” 

“Oh, I don’t... ” Beca trails off, realizing what she means. She clears her throat, “Well, I guess depending on what you wanna do for a living. Hey, do you wanna go to a farmer’s market?”

“Is there one today?” Chloe says, head tilting in confusion. “February isn’t really the season for them.”

“Oh,” Beca says, “they’re not all year ‘round?”

“No?” Chloe says, laughing. “Welcome to the East Coast.”

Beca laughs because Chloe laughs and soon enough it’s that same flurry of butterflies. 

She welcomes it. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


They aimlessly roam a few blocks after lunch. 

Chloe mentions how she wants to stop by the store, that she’s really glad they got a chance to get together, implying this is where they part ways. Beca offers to accompany her. Chloe seems pleased. 

As they look at the berries, a terrible mid-winter selection, Chloe says, and again, it’s out of the blue, “You know, the only thing I really care about is the - well, besides the married thing, and oh, well, also the jail thing-”

To which Beca throws in an, “Of course.”

“Is the boat thing,” Chloe finishes, inspecting a box of strawberries.

“The boat thing?” Beca can’t remember them ever talking about boats. 

“Yeah, I could never be with someone who had a boat.” 

“Oh.” Beca decides not to tell her that her dad has three and she technically has one.

“Do you think these are any good?” Chloe shows her a container of blueberries.

“Moldy,” is all Beca says. 

They decide on apples. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


They’re stationed at a park bench, sharing apple slices. 

“So how’s your book coming?” 

“Well,” Chloe says, excitedly. She sits up straight, smiling, “There is this children’s book editor I know from the store, and she’s excited to read it when I’m finished.” 

“Yeah?” Beca says, hoping she will go on. 

“Who would have ever thought I could write? I mean, I always wanted to.” She takes a bite of her apple. “If I hadn’t had all this free time…”

“Uh-huh,” Beca offers, then smiles, when Chloe playfully says, “I guess I should be thanking you for that.”

“You know what?”

“What?”

“The truth is that she was the one who started me thinking about writing.” 

“Oh, well, she seems just great.”

They’re quiet for a few moments, Beca attempting to stay neutral. She’s jealous of the fondness Chloe talks about, well, her, without knowing it’s her. 

“Would you wanna have lunch again? On Saturday?” Chloe asks, very casually, but with what Beca can sense an undercurrent of anxiety. 

Beca takes a bite of her apple, masking her satisfaction, she says, “Yeah, sure.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


_Are you free Saturday afternoon? 4:00? There’s a place in Central Park at 91st street, where the path curves and there’s a garden. I was there on a walk the other day and hoped I could show you if you haven’t already been._

* * *

  
  


“So today?” 

“Today.”

They’re eating hotdogs at a corner shop, both intently looking out the window. “Wow,” Beca says, in between bites. 

“I know,” Chloe replies, glancing over at Beca. She chews on her straw. “In Central Park. At 91st.” 

“Oh,” Beca says, faux surprised, “That could mean she’s a West Sider.” She has picked up on the lingo. 

“I know,” Chloe says, as if it’s astonishing. “Maybe I’ve seen her and don’t even know it!”

“You could have seen her everyday for the last week and not have even known it.” 

“It’s very possible!”  
  


* * *

  
  
It’s a warm day for winter. After lunch, they easily stroll along what Beca assumes, sort of recalls, is the route to Chloe’s apartment. 

“She could be the zipper man.” 

Chloe laughs at her dumb little jokes, turning her into a comedian. If she thinks it could make Chloe laugh, she notices she kind of just says it, no reservations. 

“Who’s that?

“The zipper man.” 

“Who is that?”

“The person on Amsterdam Avenue who repairs zippers.” 

And Chloe laughs and laughs so Beca continues. 

“You would never have to buy new luggage.”

“Cut it out.” 

And Beca looks over at her as they are walking, her smile beaming, her laugh decidedly the score to Beca’s life, and she wants nothing more than for the truth to be known and present and for this to be real. 

Beca stops abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. Chloe follows. 

“You know, sometimes, I wonder…”

“What?” Chloe looks concerned. 

“Well,” Beca says, as if that’s the sentence. She isn’t thinking clearly. “If I hadn’t been Mitchell Books, and you hadn’t been The Shop Around the Corner…” 

Beca waits for Chloe to say something, anything that will stop her from what they both know Beca is going to say. 

“And I don’t know… what if you and I had just met?” 

“I know,” Chloe says, softly. She looks at Beca with a glint in her eyes as she nods. “I know.”

“Yeah,” Beca says, her heartbeat reverberating throughout. She wills herself to continue, “I would’ve asked for your number, or I hope you would’ve asked for mine.”

Chloe looks sympathetic, but Beca knows. She knows she feels the same. It’s what makes her continue.

“And I would’ve hoped you would call if I hadn’t within 24 hours, and I would’ve asked if you wanted to go for coffee, or drinks, or dinner, or a movie… or, or anything.” Beca pauses for a breath, she studies Chloe’s demeanor, how her body language looks as if she’s saying _really?_ and her eyes entirely hopeful. “For as long as we both shall live,” she says laughing, trying to pass it off as sarcastic.

Chloe takes a visibly large breath, stepping back from her, she shakes her head briefly, saying, “Beca…” 

“And you and I would have never been at war…”

Beca’s never felt the urge to say how she feels so strongly. It’s terrifying to feel out of control. 

“...And the only thing we would ever fight about was what movie to watch on a Saturday night.”

Chloe smiles, like she knows, and holds eye contact with Beca for the first time since this conversation began. “Well, who fights about that.” 

“Some people,” Beca is quick to say. Chloe looks at her lips, and away, up at her eyes, and away. “Not us.”

Then it’s in quick succession. 

“We would never.” 

“If only.” 

“I’m gonna be late.” 

“Right.” 

“I really, really gotta go. I’m sorry.”

She begins walking around and away from Beca, who regrets not ripping the bandage off, then and there. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


If there has ever been a time in Chloe’s life where she’s entirely unsure, it’s now. 

She leaves her building, changed from her casual wear to a sweater fancier, anxiety clouding her. 

None of it makes sense. She hates Beca and now she doesn’t. Now it’s something more. Now it’s something new and thrilling.

Something that may never even get off the ground. 

Figuring out what everything with Beca means will start later, not now, not when she’s been waiting for this day for months. 

She lilts from a fast walk, to a jog, to telling herself to calm down, to walk normally, to a fast walk, to a jog. 

She gets to the park faster than she thought she would. It’s not very busy, which is out of the ordinary, but she supposes is a positive for this situation. 

When she plants herself at the spot she understands is their’s, she nervously looks around. She sits on a bench nearby and waits. Every person that passes, she assumes it’s her. 

And then, she turns her head, and she sees Beca fifteen or so feet away. 

She wonders why, how, she’s come to this very spot. And then they make eye contact, from meters away, but still she cannot help but smile, widely, fully. 

Beca continues walking towards her, clearly determined, though with a look of sheer uneasiness. She briefly wonders if it’s their track record of mistaken coexistence or if Beca is purposely coming to ruin this meeting too or if — 

And then it sort of just hits her. 

Every circumstance hadn’t been a circumstance, none of it had been purely coincidental. 

And still, she cannot stop smiling. 

And she knows. And it all makes sense. It just makes sense.

And it’s the best possible outcome. 

And then she feels angry and confused and sidestepped, almost. And she hopes it doesn’t show too much. 

Beca is only walking towards her, no one else, no one else at all, and she follows the very path she, evidently, told her to in order to find her. 

She merely shrugs at her if only to seemingly sympathize. 

And she knows, without a single doubt, that this is happening.

And she’s crying, of course she’s crying, not even tearing up, it’s full on droplets and it’s embarrassing and messy and Beca only continues walking towards her. It’s not happening fast enough so Chloe begins walking to her too and when they meet she cannot, will not say anything first. 

When they are inches away, Chloe huffs roughly, her heart in her throat, her eyes blurry from tears. It’s relieving and nonsensical and exactly what she wants. 

“Chloe,” Beca says desperately, apologetically, “Please don’t cry. I’m so, so,” Chloe’s cuts her off.

“I wanted it to be you.” Even through tears she makes sure it’s matter-of-fact. She’s beyond ready to pour her being out, to lay herself bare in front of her, but finds herself only able to say, “I wanted it to be you so badly.” 

There’s a brief moment where Beca looks like she’s going to cry, though she doesn’t. Beca steps closer to her, Chloe squeezes her eyes shut and tears hit her cheeks. She then looks around, worry lessening as she sees they are alone, secluded, away from any possible prying eyes. 

“Don’t cry,” Beca says, and reaches up to wipe her tears. It only makes her eyes water more. She grasps Beca’s hand. 

Chloe quickly decides that questions and answers will happen later, not now, not when she’s been waiting for this moment for months.

It happens from there. 

It’s gentle, honest, reminiscent of the world they’ve been creating.

And when they kiss, it’s as if they’ve kissed a million times, and will kiss a million more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any and all feedback is welcome! :-) 
> 
> thanks for reading. ♡
> 
> I’m on tumblr @rosesarefallingforu if ya wanna say hi or anything!


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